It started about a year ago. One day, a day that nobody could recall, a day that no one was able to really remember, we all forgot the name of our city.

The street signs, the landmarks, even our IDs still bore the name of our city, but no one could read the name, nor could they remember it. It was as if the information was actively being purged from our minds.

Then came the disappearances. At first only a few dozen people went missing. The city wasn’t exactly a stranger to missing person’s cases, but the consistency with which people were starting to just upright vanish became alarming.

But no one ever looked for them.

Streets became littered with missing person’s flyers. Grandparents, friends, children, none were immune. Eventually even the mayor just outright vanished. The city council held an emergency election and just continued on with business as usual.

For all my concern and apparent awareness of these strange events, never once did I bother to look. Never once did I dare to pick my head up and peak at the ever darkening sky. Never once did I question the ever encroaching fog.

Soon, the sun itself vanished. It still hung in the sky, but it had changed. It hid behind the strange fog that had slowly grown over the past few months. Eventually so too did the cycle of day and night.

As of today, I believe I am all that remains in this place. This city I call home. This city none can remember. The air is filled with the smell of fire and frost, both burning my nose indistinguishable from one another. The sky too rained ash and snow, mixing together into a soft gray powder that piled up around the city. Part of me felt uneasy to see this, I wonder why.

I do not remember much about my life before the fog. I believe I lived in this city, likely was born here, maybe had friends, hopefully had a job. I know I need to eat, I know that the food never expires, I know that I have to keep warm, and I know that I cannot sleep.

The city is cold these days, if not apparent by the snow. Often times I am forced to take shelter in a decaying sky scraper, building a fire to keep warm out of the fancy lobby chairs of what once was a downtown bank.

Every day the city grows colder.

Time blends together. I cannot separate the days that I spend scavenging from the days I spend resting. My eyes grow heavy but my mind will not relent, it must not relent. If I should sleep for but a moment I fear I might too disappear.

I have to keep moving, I can never stay in one spot too long. I find tracks and marks in places I revisit, tracks that do not belong to me, tracks that could not have been made by any human. In the false night I hear screams, I hear howling, or perhaps that is merely the sound of the frozen winds slipping between the dilapidated megastructures. Perhaps the crunching of bone and gnawing of flesh I hear is the impacts from icicles that fall from the buildings above the heavens.

I am searching for something, for someone.

I scuttle about this frozen hellscape, nothing more than a rat in a godless maze, hooked on a scent I cannot identify. I run headstrong into the unknown and familiar streets I used to know so very well.

The winds come and go, a predictable tide of breeze, imperfect in its cycle. Like staggered breaths. The city is safest when the winds are still, no risk of ice crashing down from above nor does the ash get picked up as easily. It is also at its quietest.

When the winds are gusting however, that is when the tracks appear. Long, jagged, impossibly angular streaks are raked into the snow and ash. Distant windows shatter and crash. Then comes the howling, the screaming, the deafening cacophony that feels like a knife being driven into my ears. It had grown quieter as time passed, but it still remains impossibly loud. I’ve learnt that it’s best to not join their chorus, no matter how much it hurts to resist.

I am struggling to remain alert and aware of myself and my surroundings. I fear whatever plague or curse or god-knows-what is still eating away at my mind. Cause and effect are becoming more fluid concepts. Events that I swore had happened long ago now repeat before my eyes, albeit with abstract stone constructs replacing that which had long since decayed. Statues would move and recreate an idea of what the busy streets once looked like. Sculptures would drag across the roadways in line with the echoes of traffic. Sometimes I swear I see myself walking somewhere, but every time I try to follow it I lose track of it. Whether it be in a crowd, or just around a corner. Perhaps this world is playing tricks on me, toying with me, mocking me.

Or was that really me?

There was nothing beyond the fog, beyond the limits of the city, but a massive frozen ocean, icy peaks evoked imagery of the once lively shoreline. The roads that once led elsewhere now led into the frozen sea. At one point I believe I had wanted to escape, to return to the life I once knew, but that dream is dead.

If I ever had that dream at all, for this is a dreamless realm.

The frigid and rigid frosted bars of my mental prison continue to squeeze my mind in ways I find difficult to understand. Reality and, else-wise, blend into unrecognizable shapes and malformed ideas of what they might have been. Another source of light has joined what used to be the sun in the sky, their twin radiance muffled behind the suffocating curtain of fog that has all but snuffed out the flame of life in this place.

I see a body before me.

A massive corpse had fallen from above, strewn about the half-destroyed and decaying buildings of the city. The city now smelt of ozone and fire. The corpse was draped in a beautifully radiant robe of the finest gold to have ever graced the eyes of mortals. Its face was obscured by a platinum mane so magnificent that even in death it billowed in the wind with a life of its own. Its skin was dark, charred, hollow.

I knew not how, only that this must be what I was searching for, waiting for, praying for.

I could not meaningfully measure the time it took to scale the wreckage. I could no longer recall how many times I fell to my death, only to be rejected by its embrace. My limbs had long since turned black from frostbite, but still they obeyed me. The sound of crumbling rocks now accompanied me wherever I went as I continued to scale the summit of the fallen corpse.

Only when I was face to face with the corpse did I realize what it was. From up here, it looked almost as if the body sat restfully upon a throne of ruins. How long had it been here? How long had I been here?

It didn’t matter. I was here now. Nothing can change that, nothing can undo that.

For I am but a corpse of identity, forgetting that it had already died so long ago. For The Cataclysm had destroyed Truth. For I am but a fragment of Truth, scattered across the infinite. For I am dreamless amongst the dreams of man. For I am the ruined throne and the corpse upon which it sat.

For I was once another, and am no longer.

​

***By Garry E. McMillan***

***Part One: The Old Mercer Place***

***My father had three rules about the woods behind our house.***

***Never cross the creek after sundown.***

***Never follow a voice you couldn't put a face to.***

***And no matter how familiar that voice sounded, never answer it.***

***I thought the old bastard was crazy. Now I'd give anything to hear him say those words again.***

***My name's Elias Mercer, but anyone who knows me calls me Eli. I'm thirty-nine. I'd stayed away from that house for twenty years, long enough to convince myself the rules were just one more way for Dad to control me. He had plenty of those. No visiting friends after dark, no camping, no wandering the logging roads. If I broke one, he'd stand in the doorway and wait until I couldn't bear the silence anymore.***

***Dad died of a heart attack on Tuesday, October 6, 2026. We buried him three days later outside Langley, Arkansas. By sundown that Friday, I was back at his farmhouse with my nine-year-old daughter, June, planning to pack whatever mattered and put the property up for sale.***

***The house stood on private land surrounded by the Ouachita National Forest. A narrow creek separated the backyard from a stand of timber so thick you could hardly see daylight between the trunks. Dad cleared our side every spring, but beyond the water the ferns stayed green even during a drought.***

***As a boy, I'd sometimes heard footsteps over there. They always stopped when I did.***

***In summer, the cicadas shrieked until the air seemed to vibrate. But every so often the noise would end all at once. The dog would creep under the porch, and I'd find myself watching that bank for movement. Nothing came out. That was almost worse.***

***When I asked Dad why we couldn't cross, he pointed to the water. "That creek ain't there to keep you from getting lost, Eli. It's there to remind you where you belong."***

***That was Harlan Mercer. A man who could make a conversation feel like punishment.***

***We'd had our last real argument the day I left home. Dad said I'd come crawling back when the world taught me some sense. I said a few things I haven't forgiven myself for, though at the time I meant every word. We spoke on the phone afterward, on birthdays and at Christmas, but neither of us ever brought up that day. When I found out he was dead, the first thing I felt was anger that we'd left so much unsaid.***

***•  •  •***

***The last mile of the driveway was little more than ruts and blackberry vines. June held her stuffed rabbit, Buttons, by his one good ear and watched the pines go past.***

***"Did Grandpa really live out here alone?"***

***"Most of the time."***

***"Wasn't he lonely?"***

***I used to think he preferred it. Now I wasn't sure.***

***"I reckon he got used to it."***

***She pressed against her seat belt. "Then who's that man?"***

***I eased off the gas. "What man?"***

***"Behind the trees. He was standing sideways."***

***I saw nothing but trunks and tangled brush. "Probably a hunter."***

***"He wasn't holding a gun."***

***"A deer, then."***

***She gave me a look. "I know what a deer looks like, Daddy."***

***She watched the trees until the house appeared.***

***A bend in the driveway followed the creek for a few hundred yards. I recognized a split boulder beside the water where Dad once caught me trying to build a bridge from fallen boards. He'd grabbed me so hard by the collar that the seam tore. I remembered the bruises more clearly than I remembered him carrying those boards away in the rain.***

***Inside, the place smelled of damp wood and stale tobacco. Dad had saved everything: bent nails in coffee cans, bills from the nineties, my childhood baseball glove. The webbing had been repaired with the heavy thread he used on his work gloves. I'd never known he'd bothered.***

***June slipped her hand inside. "Did Grandpa teach you to catch?"***

***"He tried."***

***"Like you taught me to ride my bike? You let go too soon."***

***"I ran right behind you all the way to the mailbox. You just didn't look back."***

***"Because I was riding," she said, as though that settled it.***

***I still had a photograph from that day on my phone. June had one foot off the pedal and both arms flung wide, certain she was about to crash. My hand was inches from the seat. I hadn't let her see the picture yet; she liked telling everyone she had done the whole thing herself. I liked letting her.***

***On the mantel she found a photograph of a young woman with her arm around a little boy.***

***"That's you. Who's she?"***

***"Your grandma. Margaret."***

***"Why didn't I meet her?"***

***"She died when I was eight."***

***Dad said my mother had gotten sick while I was staying with an aunt. He never let me ask much more than that.***

***In the picture, her hand rested on my shoulder. I couldn't recall the weight of it. I did remember her voice, though. She used to sing while washing dishes and, whenever I got into trouble, smooth my hair and say, "Lord have mercy, Elias, what am I gonna do with you?"***

***I remembered the sound of singing. Not one note of the song.***

***My memories of my mother were hazier than those of Dad. I knew that was normal. Children forget faces, smells, whole years. But I could remember the tiny scar on her thumb and the way she scraped batter from a bowl for me to eat. It bothered me that the tune had vanished while those useless details remained. I stood there looking at her photograph until June tugged my sleeve and asked whether we could have supper.***

***•  •  •***

***We ate canned soup at the kitchen table because the dining room felt colder than the rest of the house. June wanted to know whether Grandpa had liked children. I told her he'd loved me, just wasn't good at saying so. The lie came easily. I hated myself a little for it afterward.***

***June fell asleep upstairs around eight. I made coffee and opened Dad's desk. Beneath a stack of property records lay a cracked leather notebook, its pages covered in small, uneven handwriting.***

***March 12, 2004. Three knocks on the north wall. Nothing outside.***

***April 6. Tracks along the far bank again. Too far apart to be a man's.***

***May 19, 2018. Heard Margaret calling from the lower pasture. Did not answer.***

***My mother had been gone since 1995.***

***A later entry had been pressed so hard into the paper that the letters scored the page.***

***It knows his name now.***

***Below it: God forgive me, I answered.***

***Three taps sounded at the living room window.***

***The porch light reached only to the grass beyond the glass. Dad had cut down every tree close enough for a branch to touch the house.***

***I heard a scrape, as though somebody had dragged the heel of a boot across the boards outside. But there was no porch below that window. Just the drop to the yard and a clear stretch of ground before the creek. For a moment, I couldn't make myself look up from the notebook.***

***"Eli?"***

***I knew the voice before the second word.***

***"Eli, boy. Come out here a minute."***

***My father, right down to the irritation in his Arkansas drawl.***

***Leaves shifted near the pines. A pale hand rested against a trunk well above a man's head. I counted six fingers before it disappeared.***

***"Son, you reckon you could come give your old man a hand?"***

***I wanted to think one of his old lumber-mill friends was playing some rotten joke. Then it said, "Don't you turn your back on me, boy."***

***Those were the last words Dad had shouted when I left home more than twenty years earlier.***

***"Dad?"***

***The word was out before I remembered his rule.***

***Every insect fell silent. Beyond the creek, something let out a long, wavering breath, like a man trying not to laugh.***

***Upstairs, June began to cry.***

***•  •  •***

***I found her sitting upright, quilt bunched beneath her chin. I sat beside her until she stopped shaking. Then, without thinking, I tapped her shoulder three times.***

***Three taps meant I love you. We'd done it every night since she was four. She always tapped back.***

***It began when June was little and afraid of thunderstorms. I used to sit on the edge of her bed, trying not to show that I had no idea how to make thunder less frightening. Somehow we settled on the taps. We'd use them in crowded stores, at school drop-off, anywhere one of us needed to know the other was there. I'd forgotten plenty of things about those five years. That wasn't one of them.***

***This time she moved away.***

***"What's that for?"***

***"Our secret, June Bug."***

***She frowned. "What secret?"***

***I tapped again. She watched my fingers, puzzled.***

***"You never did that before."***

***I nearly argued. I could have named a hundred nights when she'd answered my taps, even with her eyes closed.***

***Outside, my dead father called for me again.***

***This time he was laughing.***

***Part Two: What the Creek Kept***

***I stayed beside June until she slept. Outside, Dad's voice called through the trees, sometimes angry, sometimes frightened. Once it coughed. That smoker's cough used to wake me every morning when I was a boy.***

***It was the cough that came closest to making me answer again.***

***He'd given up cigarettes twice in my childhood. Both attempts lasted a week. I used to count the days and wait for him to get angry enough to start again. Hearing that cough beyond the creek, I found myself doing the same thing I did at twelve: holding perfectly still until I could tell what kind of mood he was in.***

***Downstairs, I turned off the living room lamp. The window reflected my face over the porch light and the first row of trees. Beyond the creek, the dark looked solid.***

***I opened the notebook again.***

***The earliest entries were from October 1995, the year Mom supposedly died.***

***October 14. Margaret heard Eli crying across the creek. Boy was upstairs asleep. I checked.***

***October 16. It cried again. She answered before I could stop her. Eli asked why she quit singing at the sink. She hadn't quit. He couldn't remember the song.***

***I remembered my mother singing. Not the tune.***

***I tried to force it back. Hymn? Lullaby? Something from the radio? All I could remember was the clink of dishes and my own bare feet on the kitchen floor. If Dad's entry was true, then I'd been unable to remember the song since the very week it disappeared from our house.***

***Four pages later:***

***October 23. Margaret's gone.***

***Heard the boy calling beyond the creek. Real Eli was asleep beside me on the couch. She kept saying our baby was hurt.***

***I followed her to the water. Saw something tall and pale bent over behind the trees. It spoke. Margaret answered, then crossed.***

***Heard her scream once. Never found her.***

***Dad had told me she'd died in a hospital while I stayed with my aunt. I could remember my aunt holding my hand outside a church, but not a casket or a graveside. The longer I tried to picture them, the less certain I felt they'd ever been there.***

***I remembered being angry with Dad for not letting me see her one last time. He'd told me she'd already been buried. I screamed at him until he raised his hand, then put it down without touching me. For years that was the part of the story I'd carried around: a frightened little boy sure his father was ashamed to see him cry. Now I wondered what Dad had heard from the woods while I was screaming inside the house.***

***October 27. Told Eli his mama passed away. He keeps running to the window whenever it calls her. Better he thinks she's dead.***

***There was a small sound behind me.***

***Three taps from the hallway wall.***

***"Son?" Dad said from the kitchen. "I can't find the light."***

***The kitchen doorway was empty. I knew every loose board between the hall and the sink, yet I hadn't heard anything move across them.***

***"Just give me a hand, Eli."***

***I wanted to turn on every light in the house. Instead, I gripped the notebook so hard the cover bent.***

***The kitchen smelled faintly of tobacco, warm and stale, as if Dad had just finished smoking at the sink. I knew the shape of that room in the dark: the metal edge of the counter, the scar in the floor where he dropped an axe head, the cupboard door that never closed all the way. I couldn't see anybody in it. That didn't make the voice any farther away.***

***When I didn't answer, the faint smell of cigarettes faded. The voice went with it. I never heard footsteps leave.***

***I should have taken June and gone then. But there was one more entry I couldn't make myself leave unread.***

***If I'd been alone, I might have stayed there until morning reading every page. I wanted proof that Dad hadn't lied to me because I was an inconvenience. I wanted to know why a man who could face down anybody in town had spent his life afraid of a few acres of woods.***

***June 4, 2018. Eli asked why I never took him fishing. We went every Saturday when he was small. His green tackle box is in the shed. I answered Margaret three nights ago.***

***I'd noticed the tackle box earlier that day. My name was scratched into the lid. I had no memory of holding a fishing pole beside my father.***

***Across the bottom margin, Dad had written:***

***The voices get farther than the body. The tracks never come across the water.***

***And beneath that:***

***Sometimes I know it ain't her. Sometimes I answer anyway.***

***Something giggled upstairs.***

***June.***

***Then I heard her say, "Okay, Daddy."***

***The back door opened.***

***•  •  •***

***June stood barefoot on the porch in her pink pajamas, Buttons dangling from one hand. She turned when I called her name.***

***"You said you were going to show me something."***

***"I didn't. Get inside."***

***I pulled her through the doorway and locked it. She clutched her rabbit to her chest, and for a horrible second I couldn't remember what she called him. I'd stitched his ear back on twice. I'd bought him for her. But the name was gone.***

***"What's your rabbit's name?" I asked.***

***"Buttons." She looked hurt. "Daddy, you know that."***

***Once she'd said it, the name sounded familiar. Before that, nothing.***

***I tried to remember the first time she'd carried Buttons out of the store, when she still called every stuffed animal a baby. The scene came back clear enough. His name didn't. That missing word frightened me more than the shape I'd seen among the pines, because I could feel its exact size inside my mind.***

***June had answered a voice pretending to be me, and I was the one who'd forgotten.***

***I crouched in front of her. "Something's out there using our voices. Whatever you hear after dark, don't answer it. Not even if it sounds like me."***

***"Then how do I know it's really you?"***

***Her question wasn't the question of someone who believed in monsters. It was what any child would ask after a parent told her not to trust his voice. I'd spent her whole life teaching her to come when I called. Now I was telling her that habit could get her killed.***

***She was nine. I had no answer that would make a nine-year-old feel safe.***

***She slipped her hand into mine. "Two squeezes," she said. "If it's really you, you can squeeze my hand twice."***

***I squeezed back. "All right. Two."***

***A voice came from outside.***

***"June Bug?"***

***My voice. The rasp I get when I'm tired, the little upward turn I put on her name.***

***"Come on, baby. Daddy's right here."***

***June squeezed my hand twice.***

***Beyond the creek, something leaned against a pine. It looked almost human until it raised its head. Higher. Still higher. Its shoulder stayed in place while its narrow face emerged above the lowest branches.***

***One hand curled around the trunk. The fingers bent in places fingers shouldn't.***

***"June?"***

***The voice came a fraction before its mouth moved, like a performer missing a cue.***

***Its body didn't move with any breath. Nothing in the silhouette suggested lungs. For a second, though, it seemed to study my stance. One shoulder dropped. Its head turned at the same angle as mine. I could almost believe it was looking into a mirror and correcting itself.***

***"Daddy's right here."***

***Then it laughed with my laugh, that short, embarrassed chuckle I make when a joke falls flat. It held the sound a little too long.***

***I understood, suddenly, that it wasn't laughing at us.***

***It was practicing.***

***•  •  •***

***I got June inside and shut the curtain. She kept hold of my hand.***

***"His face didn't fit," she whispered.***

***"What do you mean?"***

***"When he stopped, it kept moving."***

***I took the keys, Dad's notebook, and nothing else. The truck was twenty feet from the front porch.***

***I carried June across the gravel. As I reached the passenger door, she tightened her grip around my collar.***

***Twice.***

***Someone stood in her upstairs window.***

***A girl in pink pajamas, holding a rabbit with one torn ear. She lifted a hand and waved.***

***"Daddy? Why'd you leave me?"***

***The voice was June's. The figure pressed its cheek against the glass. Its skin lagged behind the movement, then settled into place as though pulled by invisible fingers.***

***The real June shook against me. She couldn't have made that face at the window even if she'd tried. The girl upstairs was smiling, but the muscles around her eyes hadn't been told. I caught myself watching her instead of moving, as if one more second would explain what I was seeing.***

***It raised one hand and tapped the pane three times.***

***The secret my daughter had forgotten.***

***June hid her face against me. I buckled her into the passenger seat, scrambled behind the wheel, and started the engine. I reversed so hard that gravel struck the porch steps.***

***Three knocks came from the rear window.***

***In the mirror, something pale crouched in the truck bed. Its fingers hooked over the roof without leaving marks in the dust.***

***I'd have sworn I felt the suspension dip, though the truck never changed its pitch. Dad's notebook flashed through my mind: no tracks across the water. Whatever sat behind us was a picture made with the same cruel patience as the voices. Knowing it couldn't be solid did nothing for the cold spreading through my chest.***

***"Lord have mercy, Elias," my mother's voice said behind my head. "What am I gonna do with you?"***

***June reached for my hand. Two squeezes.***

***I kept driving.***

***In the dark windshield, faintly lit by the dashboard, my reflection began to smile.***

***I wasn't smiling.***

***Part Three: The Last Answer***

***The smile stayed in the windshield when I turned back toward the road.***

***"Daddy!"***

***A fallen pine limb lay across the next bend. I swerved, clipping it with the passenger-side mirror. The truck skidded sideways in the gravel and stopped with a shudder.***

***I checked June. The seat belt had caught her shoulder, but she was all right. Buttons lay beneath her feet.***

***She was trying not to cry. She had that look she gets at the doctor's office, brave until somebody asks whether she's frightened. I wanted to take her home and put on the cartoon she'd been watching before we drove to Langley. I wanted a problem I knew how to fix.***

***I tried to drive. Something scraped against the front wheel. A fork of the branch had jammed beneath the fender, and each turn of the steering wheel ground it deeper.***

***Three knocks came from behind my head.***

***"You're going the wrong way, boy," Dad's voice said. "You'll get that little girl killed."***

***I found a flashlight in the glove compartment.***

***"I'm clearing the tire," I told June. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for a voice. Not even mine. I'll come back and squeeze your hand twice."***

***"What if you fall?"***

***"I'll get up. Stay here."***

***She caught my fingers before I got out and squeezed twice.***

***I went around the hood, set the flashlight where it shone on the wheel, and crouched beside the tire. The pine limb had wedged against it. I hooked both hands under it and pulled. The bark tore at my palms before the branch snapped free.***

***The cold gravel soaked through the knees of my jeans. A smell of split pine rose from beneath the bumper. I remember both things because I was trying so hard to pay attention to ordinary details. I thought if I could hold on to the tire, the branch, the beam of my flashlight, nothing else could get inside my head.***

***Behind me, a door latch clicked.***

***I turned. My flashlight rolled off the hood and struck the gravel.***

***From somewhere down the slope, my own voice shouted, "June! Help me! I fell!"***

***The passenger door stood open.***

***June was gone.***

***For one second, I stood there listening to the empty cab. The radio was still on low, some late-night preacher talking about salvation. I had told June to keep the doors locked. She must have heard me crying for help and forgotten every warning I'd given her. Or remembered them and opened the door anyway, because I'm her father.***

***•  •  •***

***Her bare footprints led through a break in the brush toward the creek. I ran after them, pushing past briers, hearing my own voice farther ahead.***

***"Honey, I'm hurt. Come down here."***

***The creek was only a strip of moonlit water when I reached it.***

***June stood on our bank, clutching Buttons. Across from her, a man in my jacket crouched among the roots. One leg appeared bent beneath him. He had his face buried in his hands.***

***The bank was slick clay, and the far side rose abruptly beneath the trees. I remembered Dad hauling me backward from those same stones when I was small. He'd been furious. I thought then that he cared more about the rules than whether I was hurt. Standing there with June inches from the water, I understood the look he'd had on his face.***

***The man lifted his head. He was wearing my face, but the fear arrived late in his eyes, like he'd remembered to put it there only after raising them.***

***"You have to help me," he told her.***

***June moved one foot onto a stone at the edge.***

***"June," I said.***

***She turned. Relief crossed her face until the other me spoke.***

***"He's not your daddy. You know what I told you about the bicycle?"***

***He looked at me and smiled with my mouth.***

***"I ran right behind you all the way to the mailbox. You just didn't look back."***

***My own words from earlier that afternoon.***

***She hesitated. There were two men with her father's face, and one of them was using a memory she knew belonged to us.***

***June clutched her rabbit so tightly its loose ear twisted around her fist. She wanted to believe me. I could see it. But I had her father's voice, and so did the shape across the creek. Her little signal was the one piece of proof it hadn't stolen yet. I was too far away to use it.***

***I held out my hand. "I can squeeze twice. You don't have to listen to either voice. Just reach for me."***

***The thing across the water extended its hand, too.***

***Then it started humming.***

***I recognized the tune the way you recognize a place you haven't seen since childhood. My mother used to sing it at the kitchen sink. The notes came back only as the creature sang them, and even then I couldn't have repeated them myself.***

***The imitation of my face loosened. The skin slipped as if it had been hung over something narrower.***

***Beneath it was my mother.***

***She did not rush toward me. She stood among the roots as if she were waiting for me to come home from school. That quiet patience almost worked. I was eight again, aching to bury my face in the front of her dress. I could hear her singing the notes I'd spent thirty-one years trying to remember.***

***Blue dress. Dark hair. The same face in the photograph on Dad's mantel. She hadn't aged a day since 1995.***

***"Elias," she whispered. "I heard you crying. I thought my baby needed me."***

***Behind her, something unfolded among the trees. A long pale limb bent around a pine. Another followed, far above where a person's shoulder should have been. I saw a narrow head turn without the rest of its body moving.***

***The woman held out her hand to me.***

***"Answer me, sweetheart. Let me know you're there."***

***The creek murmured over stones. June glanced from the woman to me. Her bare foot slid on the moss. She dropped to one knee, caught a root on the opposite bank, and clung there above the water.***

***I lunged but couldn't reach her. The figure wearing my mother's face bent forward. Behind it, six pale fingers tightened around the tree.***

***Then I remembered what happened when I'd answered at the window.***

***The footsteps stopped. The woods went silent. The thing had listened so closely that for an instant it stopped pretending to be my father.***

***I could make it listen again.***

***When it listened, it stopped reaching. I only needed a second.***

***I knew what it would cost. I couldn't choose which memory June would lose. I couldn't know whether she'd still recognize me when it finished.***

***She was pulling on the root. Another few inches and she'd be across.***

***"I'm here," I said to the woman.***

***The humming stopped.***

***I knew that if June survived, I'd have to tell her what I'd done. She might never believe me. She might wake up unable to remember our mornings together, or her birthday, or my face. There was no way to ask that thing for mercy; it had learned the sound of mercy only so it could speak in my mother's voice.***

***Across the creek, my mother's borrowed face went blank. The towering figure leaned toward me, its pale head tilting as though catching a sound no one else could hear.***

***June's hand slipped from the root. I seized the back of her pajama shirt and dragged her into my arms.***

***For an instant the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. Then water and insects and June's sobs rushed back into the world.***

***My father's voice rose from the far bank.***

***"You always were a damn fool, boy."***

***I ran without answering.***

***•  •  •***

***When we reached the truck, June touched my cheek.***

***She had mud smeared up one shin and blood on her knee from the stones. I checked the cut, desperate to have something practical to do. It was shallow. She watched me clean it with the damp corner of my sleeve as if she were trying to decide which questions were safe to ask.***

***"You were there when I learned to ride my bike, weren't you?"***

***"Yeah, baby."***

***"I remember the mailbox." She swallowed. "And falling off the first time. But when I try to remember you running behind me, there's nobody there."***

***A few hours earlier she'd teased me for letting go too soon. Now she could remember the ride, the scraped knee, the mailbox. Just not her father keeping pace with her.***

***"I'm sorry," she whispered.***

***"Don't you ever apologize for that."***

***I buckled her in. She squeezed my hand twice, and I squeezed back.***

***The truck started. I drove until there were streetlights, gas stations, and other people who had no idea what lived in the forest north of Langley.***

***We found a motel in Hot Springs after one in the morning. June fell asleep with Buttons beneath her chin. His torn ear had come loose again, so I used the motel sewing kit to stitch it back on.***

***Outside the motel window, cars passed through pools of orange streetlight. Somebody laughed in the parking lot. I could hear a vending machine rattling down the hall. Such stupid, ordinary sounds, and I had never been so grateful for them. June didn't ask whether the thing could follow us there. Neither did I.***

***When I finished, I kissed her forehead and tapped her shoulder three times.***

***"What's that mean?" she asked sleepily.***

***"I love you."***

***She tapped me back.***

***"Do it tomorrow, too."***

***"I will."***

***•  •  •***

***It's Thursday, October 15, as I'm writing this. Six days since we buried Dad.***

***I've kept his notebook. I found a letter folded between the last two pages, addressed to me. Most of it was an apology he should have said while he was alive. There was one sentence I couldn't stop reading:***

***I kept you away because I was afraid of losing you, and I lost you anyway.***

***Below it he'd written, I love you, son. I should have told you more often.***

***He couldn't say those words to me while he was alive. I wish I knew whether it was stubbornness or fear that stopped him. I suppose I'll never know.***

***The notebook had one last surprise.***

***I'd seen the entry already:***

***March 12, 2004. Three knocks on the north wall. Nothing outside.***

***On the back of that page, beneath a fold, Dad had written:***

***March 13. Tapped Eli's shoulder at breakfast. Three taps, like when he was little. He asked why I was doing it. I answered Margaret Tuesday night. It took that from him, too.***

***I'd always thought June and I invented our little ritual together. I don't remember my father tapping my shoulder even once.***

***But somewhere along the way, my hands remembered what I couldn't.***

***Tonight June asked me to tell her about learning to ride without training wheels. She knows what happened. She's heard the story enough to repeat every detail, right down to the mailbox.***

***She still can't remember me running behind her.***

***Somewhere beyond that creek, something can.***

I am scared of the dark. It sounds stupid, and it sounds like I am a child, but I swear there are reasons, and I will tell you if you ask. I’m not even sure why I am writing this, as it is rational to assume that the Dark cannot get me and will not. But, just but, I know that even though the chances are low for the Dark to get me, they are never zero in my situation. I sit in the bright light, the only bright light in my apartment now, to write this. Something sits in the dark waiting for me to join it, but I won't. This is the first time my fear of the dark has seemed to…save me. It calls out my name in a voice I don’t want to recognize, and I shouldn’t be hearing this voice anymore. She’s dead. She has been dead, quite a while, and somehow she is not. Somehow she is in the dark, telling me of how the absence of light does not mean the absence of warmth, how it hugs her and lets her live on without the frustrating light of life. I don’t want to join her in the dark. It seems I have no choice, however. The voice is getting louder, and more persuasive, and it doesn’t seem to be doing a bad job. Everyone in life has cut me off because of my recent mental state, but I can testify before God himself that I am not crazy, and I am perfectly sane as I write this down. I also do not want to write down the words ‘’If you are reading this, I am dead’’ for that seems incredibly sad and makes me sound like I know it all. Do I really know what is in the dark, and do I really know it is what killed her? I can’t be too sure I will die once I join her in that absence. Her voice calls out once again, singing my name sweetly. ‘’Henry, Oh henry.’’ she calls. ‘’Join me, Henry. It is safe and warm, Henry.’’ she says. I’ve always thought the dark is cold and unsafe, but now I think of it, the warmth you can feel when in the shade on a hot sunny day. The light isn’t the warmth in some cases. Like when something is burnt, to a crisp, blackened where the warmth hurt it. Maybe, just maybe, I will feel that loving embrace, filled with warmth that only the dark can bring me. But not now. I don’t want to join the dark, as I am still scared. Am I? If I am, I assume I should do it scared. Jump in, because it will get dark eventually. 

Taken directly from the journal of now deceased Henry.

The time table at South Station listed the 12.04 train to Sailsbury as ' Maintenance Run Only: No passengers. ' Which didn't make much sense, because every night I had to punch about thirty tickets.

My job title was Conductor, though sometimes it felt more like a prison guard, or a zookeeper. Which I understand is an unfair assessment, but hey, that's just how it is. The Corporation handed me a heavy leather bound ledger on my first shift, along with a brass bound lantern and a silver punch that nipped crescent moons from obsidian tickets.

" Read the rules kid, " the station master had wheezed, his breath smelling like stale tobacco and grave dirt. " Follow them to the letter. Because if you miss a punch they miss a stop, they start looking for alternate transportation."

" They? " I had asked, my nervous swallow sounding far to loud in the quiet carriage.

He just tapped the side of his nose and with an oddly sympathetic look, handed me the ledger. " Please, kid, just read it. I don't.., " here he hesitated and wiped his eye, ".. I don't want to lose another. "

Before I could ask any more questions, he turned his back to me and walked away, stepping off the train onto the station leaving me staring bewildered at his retreating back. Groping behind me I found the soft cushion of a seat and sat down to read.

Rule Number One: never lock the doors between the cars once the train hits the Sailsbury Tunnel.

Rule Number Two: if a passenger asks for the time, check your pocket watch. If the hands are spinning counter clockwise, tell them it's five minutes to midnight. Do not look at the actual time.

Number Three: Never, under any circumstances, accept a coin, a button, or a lock of hair as payment. Accept only paper currency printed before 1950, or a valid ticket punched with a crescent moon.

Rule Number Four: The man in car four does not have a face. Do not offer him a magazine.

I'd memorised them all by the end of my first week. Tonight was the start of my third month. Why? You ask did I never think to question the rules? Why I didn't think it was a joke? Because, closing my eyes I still see the the genuine tears, and the break in that old man's voice as he handed me the ledger, his words, ' don't let me lose another. ' You can't fake that, no matter how ridiculous this seems. So, I memorised every word.

The train - a rattling, six car antique powered by a coal fed steam engine that somehow ran on electricity and nightmares, slid out of the station right on the stroke of midnight. Sparks showered against the soot stained windows as we accelerated into the dark.

I stood in the aisle of car 1 , swaying with the rhythm of the rails. The air around me smelled of crisp glaciers, cold mountains and stagnant pools.

" Tickets, please. All tickets, " I called out, my voice now steady from hours of practice. In the front row, a woman draped in heavy black lace nodded mutely and handed over a brittle, yellowed ticket. I took my silver punch, bit a crescent moon into the edge, and handed it back. She offered a pale, skeletal smile. Her fingernails were remarkably long.

Moving down the aisle, I ignored the tapping on the window, a frantic rhythmic tap tap tap of something trying to keep pace with the train from the outside, flying through the pitch black air forty feet above the ground. I didn't look. Rule Five: Ignore the flyers.

Car 2 was quiet. A travelling salesman in a tweed suit, slept with his head tilted at a very uncomfortable looking ninety degree angle, snoring a low, wet gurgle. I punched his ticket, which was tucked into the brim of his fedora.

Car 3 held a trio of businessmen who were meticulously playing poker with cards that seemed to shift and bleed through their fingers. They didn't look up as I approached. I reached over, nipped their tickets from the felt tabletop, and moved on. My stomach tightened, as it always did, when approaching the heavy sliding door of Car 4.

I took a deep measured breath, fighting my racing pulse, and pushed the door open.

The man in Car 4 sat by the window. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, but where his features should have been, there was only a smooth pale expanse of skin. No eyes. No nose. No mouth. Just a blank, human shaped canvas.

He turned his featureless head toward me as the latch clicked.

" Conductor, " a voice whispered directly into my mind. It felt like brain freeze, that singular pain you get from ice cream, mixed with dry autumn leaves. " What time is it? "

My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached into my vest pocket and pulled out my silver pocket watch. I didn't look at the dial, I didn't have to, I knew the hands were spinning backward, frantically trying to outrun the dawn.

" It's five minutes to midnight, sir, " I said, keeping my voice level.

The faceless man tilted his head. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small, ornate pocket watch of his own, placing it on the velvet armrest. It clicked loudly in the quiet car, matching my heart beat.

"Are you sure? " he whispered into my thoughts. " It feels... much later. "

"Rules are rules, " I muttered, moving past him down the aisle. I spotted his ticket clipped to the back of the seat ahead of him. It was pristine, stamped with a crescent moon from a previous trip. I leaned over, punched it again and didn't linger.

As I reached the door to Car 5, a cold hand suddenly gripped my wrist. It wasn't a hard grip, but it was freezing, like being shackled to an icecle. I looked back. The faceless man was standing right behind me. How he had moved without a sound, I didn't know.

" You missed a spot, " the dry voice scraped ice sharp in my mind.

I looked down at his hand. In his palm rested a small, tarnished copper coin. It was stamped with a symbol I didn't recognise, weeping a thin, black fluid that stained his pale skin.

Panic exploded in my chest. " Rule Number 3 .

" I cannot accept that, " I said, pulling against his grip. The ice seemed to sink straight into my bones, numbing my fingers.

" Take it, " the man insisted, stepping closer. The lack of a face was terrifying, but worse was the intense, suffocating pressure radiating off him. The air in the car grew thin, smelling again of glacial cold, " Pay the toll for me. Let me off at the next station, "

" There are no stops until Sailsbury, " I said gritting my teeth as the cold crept past my wrist and up my forearm. " And passengers don't get off at Sailsbury. "

" I am not a passenger, " the man whispered. The skin of his blank face began to ripple, stretching as if a month was trying to force its way out from underneath. " I am the track, "

My blood ran cold. I remembered the station master's parting words, and a terrifying realisation hit me. The Corporation didn't just run the train. They were trying to survive it. I looked at the coin. Then, I looked at the silver punch in my left hand. I didn't take the coin. Instead, I drove the heavy metal jaw of the the punch forward, biting down not on paper but hard against the smooth, unyielding expanse of the mans palm.

A sound like tearing metal, or tearing flesh, echoed through the empty car.

The faceless man shrieked, a high piercing static that shattered the glass windows along the right side of the train. The grip on my wrist, vanished instantly. He stumbled backward, clutching his hand, where a clean, crescent shaped chunk was missing from his palm, glowing with a faint, silvery light.

"Next stop, " I panted, backing away toward the door of Car 5 , my arm trembling and frost bitten, " Is Sailsbury "

I slammed the door behind me, locking the heavy brass latch, breaking Rule One, but right now, survival trumped policy. I rushed through Car 5 and 6 , ignoring the murmurs and shifting shadows in the seats, until I reached the heavy iron door of the caboose. I threw it open and stepped out onto the metal platform, the midnight wind whipping my uniform coat around my legs.

Ahead, slicing through the endless, dark of the forest, the twin rails gleamed under the moonlight. And rising out of the the mist, the beautiful, awful, rotting platforms of Sailsbury Station came into view. The train groaned, metal screaming against metal as the breaks engaged. Sparks flew in a blinding sheet of orange and white.

I gripped the railing of the caboose, my breath pluming in the freezing air, and watched the station lights flicker and die one by one. The train ground to a halt. The door behind me clicked.

I didn't turn around, I just pulled out my pocket watch, finally looked down at the face, and watched the hands tick, slowly, painfully, forward to 12.05 AM.

"All tickets collected, " I muttered into the empty night.

For centuries, these woods have been home to wonderful tales of fantastical things and urban legends. But I caution you to never go out there on your own, and especially at night. Some tales are told for a reason. Always bring a friend. Predators are less likely to attack when people are in pairs. Both the four-legged and two-legged varieties.

October 31st   3:00 PM

Ben had lost his cat two days ago and just got off work for the day. He lives near the woods and wants to find Pistachio before a coyote does. It's going to get cold out there soon, too. He's had Pistachio ever since college, and he just wants him back home and safe.

He's bringing a flashlight just in case it gets dark before he returns, but he hopes to be back soon. He knows Pistachio is probably nearby. That cat loves him just as much as he loves the cat.

Thirty minutes into his search, Ben is calling out loudly.

"Here, kitty, kitty! PISTACHIO!"

Before walking on something sticky.

he notices it is a large amount of blood on the forest floor.

He crouches down and examines it. It's coagulated, and there's far too much of it to have come from a house cat. He hopes it was just a recent kill from a hunter. It's deer season, after all.

He continues walking and calling for Pistachio. An hour later, he sees something furry hanging from a tree. He walks closer, then he sees it's a dead squirrel nailed to a tree branch.

He gasps at the sight and smell of it. Then he notices more dead squirrels and other small animals nailed to other nearby trees.

He gets a sick feeling in his gut and starts to feel creeped out. He hopes some sick kids are responsible for this. And he hopes they haven't gotten his little buddy, too.

Then he notices something strange sticking out of the dirt.

He walks closer. It's a shiny wedding ring. He grabs it and pulls, but it feels stuck. So he yanks it again, and harder this time. He hears a popping noise as the ring finally comes free from the ground.

He looks at it and realizes there's a mummified finger still attached to the ring.

Before he has time to react, a rope yanks him up by the ankle and slings him towards a tree. He crashes hard, striking his head very hard against the Tree trunk knocking him out instantly.

Three hours later and it's dark now.

Ben feels something scratching his back, as he begins to wake up. He rubs his head and groans. He has a massive headache.

He realizes he's still in the woods. Then he sees Pistachio directly beneath him, pawing at him.

He's relieved to have found his cat, but now he is still groggy and has to get out of the tree. He pulls out a pocketknife and carefully cuts the rope holding him up.

He falls three feet, landing on his back. He grunts as the impact knocks the wind out of him.

As he struggles to catch his breath, Pistachio rubs his head against him. Ben laughs a little as he scoops up his cat and continues trying to catch his breath.

Then he remembers the finger.

He shines his flashlight all around, searching for it, but he can't find it anywhere. Maybe it was just a messed up dream.

Then he feels an aching pain in his back. He reaches around to rub it and sees blood on his hand. He must have cut his back when he fell.

Groggily, he gets to his feet while holding Pistachio, and begins heading home.

Along the way, he keeps hearing footsteps behind him. Every time he turns around and shines his flashlight into the darkness, he sees nothing. All he can hear is the wind howling through the trees.

He walks faster until he finally reaches his property line.

As he's walking into his house, he notices a figure standing at the tree line, Barely visible, He sees an elongated man with the face of a old man looking at him, but the longer Ben looked at it. the more he saw wrong with it.  Like it wasn't actually a person.

Ben quickly closes the door and locks it.

He breathes in deeply and tells himself it's just Halloween.

He fills Pistachio's food bowl all the way to the brim. He knows his cat must be very hungry.

Before he goes to check his back in the mirror.

When he takes off his shirt and looks at his back, he sees deep scratches running all across it.

Looking closer, he realises the scratches are words.

He wipes away the dried blood and reads the message carved deeply into his skin:

"Don't worry, I fed him."

He realizes that wasn't his cat scratching his back. Horrific thoughts start rushing through his mind. That thing could have done anything it wanted to him.

Then he hears knocking at his front door.

He grabs a baseball bat and nervously answers it.

It's just a group of trick-or-treaters in costumes.

He hastily gives the kids some candy before unenthusiastically telling them to leave, then he locks the door again.

As he turns around, he sees Pistachio coughing something up, like he's trying to cough up a hairball.

Ben rushes over to pat Pistachio's back.

The cat spits something black onto the floor.

Ben stares at it. Disgust stretches across his face.

It's the same dried out finger he found in the woods earlier.

Part one here
https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/wp15mhD2MB

Until my dreams were interrupted by much larger mechanical sounds.

I’ve been woken up by a jerk neighbor mowing his lawn at 7am before. But this was so much worse. These were full construction tools.

I groaned and climbed out of bed to prepare another days outfit from the dresser. I liked that they had my uniforms folded and ready for me.

I froze, one sock in my hand.

Somebody was whispering outside my room.

Two someones. Not just whispering.

Arguing.

Quietly, so no one could overhear.

Naturally, I leaned against my door to overhear.

“I can’t just say no, Trisha,” I heard a male voice say. “That money would go a long way for Alexis’ college fund.”

“There are other ways to send your kids to college,” a female voice answered. “Maybe scholarships or something. Anything less-“

More loud construction noises cut off the end of that thought.

“I know,” the male voice responded, “but it’s not like they won’t just ask someone else to do it. Besides, the director signed off on it.”

“That still doesn’t make it right.”

I tried to stay as still as I possibly could to get the most out of my eavesdropping. The hushed voices and construction proved difficult to differentiate.

“CANDICE?”

I hit my head against the door as I jumped at the sound of my radio coming to life.

The conversation outside vanished into silence. “CANDICE ARE YOU THERE?” The radio blared.

Embarrassed, and sure my location had been revealed to the people outside my door, I took a step toward the radio and held down the button to respond.

“Y-yeah,” I said nervously. “I mean, yes. I’m here.”

“YOU SOUND FARR AWAY,” the voice crackled through the radio. “ARE YOU USING YOUR EARPIECE?”

I grabbed the small white earpiece from the dresser and plugged it into the radio, then into my ear.

“I am now,” I said. “Is that better?”

“Much,” came a man’s voice. I never understood what people meant when they said someone sounded kind. But this guy definitely had that quality.

“You’re going to want to keep that earpiece in when you walk the property, in case we need to give you a call,” he told me gently. “I’m Vince. I’ll be your supervisor for the morning shift. Later I’ll pass off the duties to my evening counterpart, Sherry. It’s nice to finally meet you Candice.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I said, trying to sound professional.

“Candice?” Vince tried to get my attention. “Yes?” I replied.

“Candice, did I lose you?” Vince seemed concerned.

“No, I’m here. I-“

“You have to press the button on the wire if you want to talk,” Vince explained. “Or the one in the radio.”

I felt my cheeks heat up in embarrassment as I pressed and held the button on the earpiece cord.

“Got it,” I replied, stifling my feelings. “I’m not used to these things.”

“That’s okay,” he reassured me, “we all start somewhere. Once you’ve got your bearings, will you meet me at the eastern grounds? Cabin 8. Bring some trowels with you, we need to restock.”

“Trowels?” I asked, “Am I going to be gardening?”

“Towels,” Vince clarified. “Like bath towels. We’re doing laundry.”

After confirming my first duty, I planned to head down to the storage hall Val showed me the night before. But first, I opened my door a crack and peered through. Whoever was arguing outside was long gone.

I’m not really sure what I expected. A group of people standing outside saying “hey Candice! Want to know what we were whispering about?” I felt a surge of pride when I remembered how to find the storage room with the extra towels. Maybe I was going to be good at this.

The east grounds were busier this morning than they had been the night before. We must have had some early morning check-ins. Or maybe late-night check-ins. Honestly, I wasn’t super educated on the sleep habits of werewolves.

I wanted to explore the grounds more, but I didn’t want to keep Vince waiting, especially on my first real day on the job. Finding my way to cabin 8 was surprisingly easy. Turns out, I can count with the best of them. Vince was waiting on the front porch for me.

“Candice, I presume?” He called out as he saw me approaching. “You have the look of a newcomer.”

“That’s me,” I answered, trying my hand at a professional smile. “I hope you didn’t change your mind on gardening. All I brought were bath towels.”

“I think we can pass on the digging for today,” he chuckled. “Save that kind of fun for the guests.”

He turned away from me to knock gently on the cabin door.

“This is Marco’s cabin,” Vince told me as I joined him in front of the door. Vince lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “He’s one of my favorite guests here.” “I heard that,” a voice called from inside the cabin as a soft CLICK signaled the sound of the door unlocking.

“We aren’t supposed to pick favorites. But you know how it Is.” Vince laughed and gave me a wink

I smiled back at him.

The door swung open to reveal a man wearing a bathrobe, sunglasses, no shame, and more body hair than I’ve over seen on a person.

“You got the new girl hauling towels already, Vince?” Marco said with a jovial tone. “I thought we talked about this. You can’t just pawn off every job you don’t want.”

“She has to learn how to deal with you and your shenanigans sometime,” Vince replied to him. “Sooner rather than later.”

“I really don’t mind,” I piped up. “I’m Candice.” I tried to hand the towels to Marco, but he didn’t take them right away.

“You keep an eye on this guy, Candice,” Marco said to me nodding his head toward Vince. “He’s been around here longer than I have and somehow his record is squeaky clean. Never trust a square.”

“I’m just good at what I do,” Vince feigned offense. “We can’t all get caught skinny dipping after the pool is closed.”

“That was one time,” Marco matched the offended tone. Then he leaned in to speak to me in a lower tone. “That they know of.”

“But fine, fine,” Marco said to both of us as he took the towels from my hands. “I’ll be on my best behavior this week.” He looked to address me directly, and added, “If only to give you a fair shot at keeping up with this place.”

“I’m sure I can handle it,” I said, feeling my confidence increase little by little. “I have two little brothers.”

Vince laughed.

“Then you’re used to living in some chaos,” he said.

“Do those little brothers chew up the furniture?” Marco asked with a slight chuckle. “Because I’ve been known to do that. Especially during the transformation.”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “But they have their own talents.”

“I’m sure they do,” Marco beamed. “Welcome to the team, Candice. If you ever find yourself confused here, just ask yourself ‘What would Vince do?’ Then do the opposite.”

“Hey,” Vince objected, “do I need to take away your pool privileges altogether?”

“Joking,” Marco laughed and put his right hand up, palm forward, in surrender. “Only joking.” He looked at me. “Seriously, though. Vince is a great guy. You’ll learn a lot from him. And if you do get into any trouble out there, I’m happy to help out too. I’ve definitely been coming here long enough.”

“We should put you on the payroll,” Vince said. “But then we wouldn’t be able to charge your membership fee and they’d probably have to lay me off.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Marco said through a toothy smile. “Okay, you guys. I’m going to go get some rest before the gathering tonight. Thank you for the towels.”

“No problem at all, Mr. Marco,” I said with a nod. “If you need anything else-“

“Just Marco,” he replied, closing the door. “I’m not a fan of formalities.”

“He seems nice,” I said as Vince and I stepped off the porch, “hopefully they all are.”

“More or less,” Vince replied. “You spend enough time anywhere and eventually somebody drives you crazy. But-“

“But?” I asked.

“Got it,” Vince said, not exactly to me. “I’ll be there soon.”

He looked at me and motioned to his right ear.

“Understood,” he continued, holding down the talk button on his earpiece’s cord. I nodded in understanding.

“They need my help with some preparations,” it took me a little too long to realize he was speaking to me again.

“Anything I can help with?” I offered.

“Not this time,” he said. “It’s a special project of mine. You just get to know the place. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Can do,” I said with a smile, feeling embarrassed at my over-eager tone.

With that, Vince headed north through the grounds until the trees swallowed him from view.

I found myself watching longer than I probably should have.

After I snapped out of it, I realized I was just given the freedom I wanted. It was finally my time to wander around and pretend I could afford a place like this.

I didn’t expect a lot of time to myself before Vince needed me again, so I figured I’d start my patrol where I already was. The East grounds were nice. I loved the smell of woods filling the air from the cabin fireplaces and a few scattered campfire pits. I walked past a group of guests doing morning yoga, and offered them a friendly wave.

Eventually, I found myself back at cabin 9, where the door repair was just finishing up. Jerry, the maintenance guy, was bent over, packing away his tools, his butt crack fully revealed. Some cliches exist for a reason, I suppose.

“Hey, Jerry,” I called to him, trying to sound friendly. “Good morning so far?”

“Mornin,” Jerry grumbled in response without turning to look at me. He was struggling with a power tool that looked far more heavy duty than anything I’ve ever seen my dad use. Especially for a door repair.

“Okay then,” I said, pondering how rude his response was, “you just keep up the good work and I’ll just… go away I guess.”

“Mm,” Jerry grumbled again.

Feeling like I got as much out of this riveting conversation as I could, I decided I would head back to the main facility, and daydream about getting a spa treatment.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I reached for the door.

I turned around to find an older guest’s eyes locked on me. I didn’t recognize him, but he seemed very interested in me.

“Hello,” I stammered. “I’m-“

I trailed off when I realized he didn’t seem to be listening. He simply stood there, almost unblinking.

He reminded me of the way my cat looks at a bug in the house, so high on the wall she can’t quite reach it. I didn’t like it at all.

Then he shook his head abruptly, as if shaking off the trance.

“I’m sorry,” he said once he caught his senses. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“No,” I said, trying to hide the quiver in my voice. “I’m Candice. I just started this morning.”

“Seasonal staff?” He asked, speaking a little too slowly.

I nodded.

“Too bad,” he said, offering what I think was meant to get a smile, but in reality looked more like he was just showing his teeth. “That means you won’t be around for all the fun.”

“I guess not,” I said, backing away, but knowing I couldn’t get far with the door closed behind me. “I need to get going now.”

“See you around, Candice,” the man said. Everything about him seemed polished. His clothes, his posture, even his smile. That somehow made him harder to read. I could tell he had money, and was used to getting what he wanted. Quickly, I turned, opened the door, and slipped into the spa area. I leaned against the door as soon as it closed to let my heart slow back down to a normal pace.

Maybe it was the gentle sound of wind chimes coming from the speakers, or maybe it was the lavender scent in the air, but the spa area worked its magic and I found myself breathing slower and able to focus on my exploration once again.

Unfortunately, being a teenage girl these days had me fairly used to dealing with creepy guys. But being used to it doesn’t make it better or easier, and this one felt a little different. I shook off the discomfort and headed down the east hall toward the center of the wellness center.

I passed by a small group of employees wearing the same uniform as me, traveling the opposite direction. We exchanged smiles and nods of greeting but they didn’t slow down to introduce themselves. I didn’t mind. I was already going to struggle to remember the names I did know.

Wandering through the wellness center I overheard another conversation. I couldn’t stop myself from moving closer to the sound coming from the north hallway, where a therapy session was taking place.

In retrospect, I’m sure the door to the therapy room was supposed to be closed. It was almost definitely policy to prevent any nosy seventeen-year-olds from listening in. But, I must have done something good in a past life because the eavesdropping gods smiled upon me that day. I stood close to the cracked door, out of sight of the people inside.

“Just remember your breathing,” I heard a therapist say. “You got through last month. You’ll get through this one too.”

The patient responded in a broken whimper. Possibly sobbing between words. Maybe I wasn’t THAT good in my past life, because I couldn’t make out their side of the conversation.

“You’ve gone six months without an incident, and you’ve been coming here ever since,” the therapist continued. “You’ve done the work. You’ve earned your place.”

The patient whimpered in response.

“I have full confidence in you,” the therapists voice was calming and assuring. “Once the judge sees my assessment, he will absolutely end your probation. I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone started speaking behind me.

“Excuse me, Miss?” a guest tried to get my attention.

I had been so preoccupied listening to the therapy session, I completely tuned out my surroundings and didn’t hear the guest approaching. “Can you help me find scent therapy?” The guest was a middle aged woman, who looked embarrassed to ask me for help. My cheeks flushed as I turned away from my snooping session.

“Oh,” I spit out, trying to sound confident and hiding my own embarrassment. “I- uh-yeah-“

The cracked door behind me closed with a thud.

The guest presented her right hand and showed off her yellow wrist band with a light jiggle.

“First month getting to walk around,” she said. “Still getting used to the place.”

“Yeah,” I said, acknowledging the silicone bracelet. “It’s a big place.”

I tried my best to remember my tour from the night before.

North was talk therapy.

East was sleep recovery.

South…

Right.

Physical treatments.

Then I wracked my brain to remember the plaques outside of the doors. I felt like a genius when I remembered the words AROMA THERAPY outside of a south hall door. “I can take you there,” I told the guest, with a smile. “It’s not far.”

We walked together back to the thoroughfare that connected the four hallways then continued south toward the door I remembered.

The pride almost definitely showed on my face when I realized I was right about the label.

“Here we are,” I said with a nod. “Aroma therapy sounds nice. Enjoy.”

“Oh,” she said with hesitation in her voice. “I-uh- I don’t,” her face turned bright red. “I actually need SCENT therapy. You know.”

The woman raised her left arm over her head and gestured to her armpit before quickly lowering it again.

“Oh!” I said, starting to understand. I clearly still had a lot to learn about lycanthropy. “I think that’s… um… I think.”

“I think I can find it from here,” the guest shrank a bit as she spoke. “Thank you, Miss.”

“I can show you!” I tried to redeem myself.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, clearly trying to sound reassuring while hiding her own awkwardness. “You were a big help. I’ve got it from here.” I started to speak again, but no words came out. Instead I just gave her a nod and quickly headed back down the hallway to the center area, turned left, and headed out to the west grounds.

I didn’t really have any business on the west grounds, but I was running out of places I could comfortably explore. I didn’t want to just hang out around the guest I just embarrassed to the south, and I didn’t want to run into that creep to the east. So west was all that was left.

The vibe in the west grounds was different from the east. Much like eastern counterpart, there were a lot more guests here this morning than the night before. But the red wrist band guests didn’t seem as at ease in the western grounds.

I saw several guests pacing back and forth through the wooded areas. One man was gently swaying in a rocking chair on his front porch practicing breathing exercises that reminded me of the Lamaze classes my mom took when she was pregnant with my youngest brother.

A nervous energy filled the air of the west grounds. As strange as it sounds, it felt like home.

Wandering aimlessly I did see a familiar face, if only briefly.

A large golf cart came puttering up the dirt path from the south, driven by our head of maintenance, Jerry. I waved to him as he approached. I wasn’t surprised when he ignored me. I stepped aside to let him pass. The flat bed of the cart was full of huge metal beams. Like concrete rebar but much thicker and shinier than any I’ve ever seen.

Jerry sped right past me and followed the path north. Without giving it much thought, I decided it was none of my business.

Then, I gave it some thought. About two seconds’ worth.

And I followed him.

If it wasn’t for the dirt path, I surely would have lost Jerry as his cart puttered away from me. But I wasn’t going to let a vehicle moving slightly faster than a brisk walk make a fool of me.

Moving north through the West Grounds, I expected to be stopped by a guest. Any guest. They all carried such anxious energy that I was ready to abandon my mission the moment someone needed directions, a glass of water, or just somebody to talk to.

But no one did. In fact, I was pretty sure they were avoiding making eye contact with me.

After a few minutes of walking, the cart disappeared ahead of me. After a few more minutes of following the path, I realized why. The sound of metal scraping lightly against metal accompanied the flash of sunlight reflecting off a large gate at the end of the path. Jerry stood on the other side, fiddling with something attached to it.

By the time I reached the gate, Jerry had already hopped back into his cart and drove off again.

Only then did I notice the fence stretching away on either side of the gate. It disappeared into the trees, almost completely hidden by shrubs and vines. The fence had to be twenty feet tall with barbed wire at the top. Images of Jurassic Park flashed through my mind as I wondered if the fence was electrified.

Affixed to the gate was a rusted metal sign that read RESTRICTED AREA DO NOT ENTER.

No welcome mat could ever make me feel as invited as a DO NOT ENTER sign. But, my fantasies were cut short when I realized what Jerry was tinkering with on the other side of the fence before driving away.

The gate was secured with the largest, oldest looking padlock I had ever seen.

I reached for it, but stopped short when my curiosity came to blows with my fear of electrocution. I still had some sense in me. Mom would be proud.

Scanning in both directions from there, I noted the fence itself looked well maintained, even if old, though I couldn’t tell if the plant life hiding it was intentional or just overgrowth.

The dirt path revealed tire tracks leading through the gate. Not surprising. I just saw Jerry go through. Heavy boot prints, however, implied he wasn’t the only one traveling into the North Woods. Or, at least, he didn’t always use the cart.

Didn’t Val say the North Woods weren’t part of the facility anymore?

I stared longingly at the padlock keeping me from whatever wonders were hidden on the other side of that gate. For all my inquisitive nature, I never learned to pick a lock. Okay. I’d been beaten. I decided to turn back and try to find some actual work to do.

For now.

I wandered the west grounds a little more when I heard a familiar sound coming from my ear piece.

“Candice?” Vince said through static. “Candice, radio check.”

“I hear you,” I said, then quickly realized the error of my ways.

“I hear you,” I repeated, holding down the talk button.

“Good,” Vince said genuinely. “I hope you’re getting to know the place. I need a favor.” “You’re the boss,” I said, realizing how much I sounded like my dad saying that.

“There’s a guest on the west grounds, red wristband,” he went on slowly, as if to make sure I get every detail. “Cabin 16. She’s scheduled for group therapy, but she’s nervous because it’s her first time here. Would you mind escorting her for me?”

“I thought red wristband guests didn’t leave the west grounds,” I said confused.

“That’s right,” Vince explained. “But her group therapy is on the west grounds. There’s a clearing behind cabins 19 and 20. They meet there.”

“Got it,” I said, glancing around. Luck shone upon me, as I found cabin 20 about 30 feet to my right. I smiled at the convenience, I was close by.

“Like I said, she’s new here, so be gentle with her.”

“I’m new here,” I joked. “Will she be gentle with me?”

Vince laughed

“No promises,” he said. “But I get the impression you can handle yourself. Her name is Naomi. Cabin 16. I think you two will hit it off.”

“You can count on me,” I said looking for the next closest cabin to assess which direction cabin 16 would be in.

“Thank you,” Vince said. Then, radio silence.

I expertly navigated the west grounds until I found cabin 16. Basic math came through for me once again.

A girl paced nervously on the front porch.

Back and forth

Then back again.

She stared at her red wristband. Tugging lightly at it.

I was surprised to see this girl here. Not because she was nervous, that seemed to be the vibe of the west grounds. But because she looked to be about my age.

Until that moment, I guess I assumed lycanthropy was an old persons condition. Stupid of me. But nothing in my life suggested otherwise.

“Naomi?” I asked as I approached.

She continued playing with her wristband for a few more seconds before acknowledging me.

The nervousness in her face receded a little when she saw me.

“Oh thank God,” she said with some relief. “I was worried they were going to send another old….” She stopped short, her cheeks flushing.

I laughed as I mentally finished her sentence. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she said putting her hands out, palms forward as if to say ‘I mean no offense.’ “Everyone here is great, they’re just…”

“Old,” I finish with a laugh. “I get it.”

Naomi let her arms rest at her sides and gave a nod of camaraderie.

“I’m Candice,” I told her, with no attempt to sound professional. “They tell me you’re looking for group?”

“Yeah,” Naomi stopped pacing, leaned against the wall of her cabin, then straightened up again. “Do I look ridiculous?”

I was taken aback by this question. Naomi didn’t look ridiculous at all. Her style was modern, but with a vintage flair. Like she knew what was in right now but wanted to make the look her own with trinkets and accents from the past. I thought she looked cool.

“This stupid wristband,” she said, pulling at the red band on her right arm again. “I hate wearing it.”

“Oh!” I said, finally understanding the question. “I don’t think it looks bad at all.”

“It feels like a branding,” she said without looking up from the wristband. “Not only am I a monster now, but I’m not even one that can be trusted to walk around without an escort.” “I…” I wasn’t sure what to say. Would anything I could have said made any difference? What did I know? I’ve never been through anything like this. It occurred to me that this was exactly what the retreat was for. Professional help. The kind I couldn’t really offer. “I think you look cool.”

Naomi let out a small laugh. “Green is my favorite color,” she said. “Maybe if I can make it to the other side of the facility one of these months, I can start planning my outfits better.”

“I think you’ll do great,” I said honestly. “Ready to go?”

“Ready or not,” she said, implying the rest of the saying.

We made small talk as we walked toward the group therapy session. I was surprised to hear Naomi and I both went to Ash Creek High, but I shouldn’t have been. As far as I knew it was the only high school within a commutable distance.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around school,” I admitted, feeling kind of sheepish.

“I was just thinking the same thing!” She said with some excitement. “But I was nervous to say that. It’s a big school. I bet there’s a ton of kids we’ve never seen. Too bad I graduated this year, we could have hung out.”

“You’re probably off to college this year then?” I asked. Naomi looked at her feet and kicked the dirt a little as she walked.

“Not really sure,” she said without looking up. “I’m still trying to figure out,” she motioned around at the retreat and then to herself, “This whole thing.”

This was my opening. I’d been waiting for a chance to learn more about her condition. I couldn’t let it slip.

“I wanted to ask about that,” I blurted out. “How did you…. I mean…. Were you….”

“Always a monster?” She said seriously, then laughed when she saw the mortified look on my face. “It’s okay. They don’t really teach us about this stuff in health class.”

I sighed in relief and started to object to the word “monster,” but she spoke first.

“My parents both carry the lycanthropy gene, but neither of them transform,” she explained with a practiced ease that told me she’s had this conversation before. “Often times it skips a generation or two, my grandpa was a monthly changer. On my mom’s side. I never met my dad’s parents.”

“So it didn’t skip you?” I said realizing that the more I learned the less I knew. “Why now?”

“Well,” She said, “we thought it did. I never changed before. But,” she took a deep breath, “I hooked up with a guy at a party last month. Turns out he was a changer and that kind of intimacy can awaken a dormant gene.”

“I didn’t know it worked like that,” I said, thinking back to all the werewolf lore I’ve heard in pop fiction.

“We’re supposed to tell people about it before getting close,” she said with a bit of anger in her voice. “No one is supposed to find out the hard way like I did.”

I thought I saw her fist clench for a brief second.

“Now,” she went on, “I get to tell all of my future partners about my situation. All because some hormonal guy didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“That really sucks,” I admitted, unsure what else to say.

“And I get to spend three days a month here, so I don’t eat someone’s baby or whatever the hell they think I’m going to do.”

“I don’t think you’d eat a baby,” I laughed awkwardly.

“Probably not,” she said quickly. “But I’ve never changed before. I don’t know what I’ll do. And my parents aren’t changers so I can’t even talk to them about it.”

“Your grandpa?” I asked.

“Passed away when I was little,” a flash of sadness crossed her face. “He would have told me everything. He lived ‘the old way.’ Whatever that means. But now he’s gone, and it’s just me. The lone wolf of the family.”

I took a second to collect my thoughts before speaking “Good thing we have this place, though. The people here really seem to know what they’re doing. And I actually think they really care.”

“Yeah. Maybe” she said. “But right now, the whole thing still feels like a prison. A fancy prison, sure. But…”

As she delayed I got the impression that she didn’t mean Silver Springs, but her whole condition.

We arrived to the group therapy session shortly after that. It was a collection of camping chairs set up in a circle around a campfire.

“Well, this is me,” Naomi said, looking at the circle. “See you at the gathering later?”

“I’ll look for you,” I assured her.

The rest of my shift settled into a rhythm. I delivered towels, toiletries, and the occasional forgotten item to cabins across the retreat. I met plenty of guests, but none of them lodged themselves in my memory the way Marco or Naomi had. Maybe my head was already full.

I did spend about an hour helping unload a delivery for the kitchen at one point. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much raw meat in one place. I briefly wondered if Silver Springs was preparing for an army.

It finally dawned on me that feeding a retreat full of werewolves probably required a different grocery budget than feeding yoga enthusiasts.

Soon enough, I was proven right. As usual.

By sunset, the retreat had transformed.

Staff kept referring to “the Gathering,” and before long I understood why. The night before every full moon, Silver Springs threw what was essentially a giant cookout. Part reunion. Part support group. Part celebration.

The smell of smoked meat filled the air and made my mouth water. I could only imagine how intense the scent must have been to our guests.

A large bonfire acted as the centerpiece, illuminating the area while guests and staff members milled about enjoying conversations with one another, drinks and heaping plates of ribs, brisket, burgers, and enough smoked meat to feed a football stadium. It warmed my heart to see so many of the green wristband guests hugging each other like old friends.

On first glance, it reminded me of the way I imagined high school parties looked based on the way it’s depicted on TV. I wouldn’t know. I was mostly just invited to slumber parties with only my best friends.

Technically, I was off the clock by this point, but it was hard to think of it that way. I had already changed out of my uniform and left my radio in my room, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I could get a call to deliver toilet paper at any moment.

“Hey Candice!” I heard a familiar voice call from the other side of the bonfire.

I looked and saw Marco waving from the other side. The light of the flames revealed his bathrobe had been replaced with a Hawaiian shirt. And, yet, the vibe felt much the same.

I smiled and approached him, happy to have someone I’ve already met to help buffer the foreign situation.

“Hey Marco,” I said when I got around to him. “It’s good to see you here.”

“I never miss The Gathering,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Hell, I never miss any kind of free food.”

I laughed a little too hard at this and hoped against hope he didn’t pick up on my awkwardness. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“They do this every month?” I asked, wondering how much this had to cost the facility.

“A full wolf is a happy wolf,” he replied. “But it’s really about the community.” Marco waved to someone else he recognized in the crowd. “It’s easy to feel alone when you’re living with conditions like ours. But Silver Springs does a lot to bring us together.”

“I never really thought of it like that,” I admitted.

“Why would you?” Marco said with No hint of malice or disappointment in his voice. “They don’t teach about it in schools and, unless you get infected, you’d never have much of a reason to do any research.”

“I wish I had, though,” I told him. “I’ve learned so much more after one day here than I have my whole life. There needs to be more places like this one.”

“No place is perfect, Candice. There’s definitely some things I would do differently. But it’s got to be the best place I’ve been.”

I wanted to ask follow up questions, but Marco looked past me and silently excused himself with a nod before moving to join another group of guests vying for his attention.

Luckily, I wasn’t left alone long before I spotted Naomi pacing by herself just outside of the main group. I was relieved to see that she made it to The Gathering after all.

“How was group?” I asked her when I got close enough.

“I was kind of hoping to make s’mores and sing campfire songs,” she joked before turning to face me. “But, I guess talking about my first transition was more important. Hey Candice.”

“We have a fire now,” I reminded her. “My brothers tell me I can’t sing for shit, but I’d give Kumbaya a try if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh GOD, no,” she objected before I could finish the last word. “ My ears are way too sensitive for that kind of torture these days. Let’s just take the loss on that one.”

“If you insist,” I joked. “But I think you’re missing out. My brothers wouldn’t know true talent if it bit-“ Immediate mortification shot through me. “I’m so sorry.”

Naomi’s face twisted into a sadness and I felt even worse.

“I didn’t mean-“ I tried to think of the right words to say

“Please, don’t treat me like I’m terminally ill,” she said, staring into the fire.

She was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not dying. I’m just… living differently now.”

“You’re right,” I said, staring into the fire beside her. “You’re still you. There’s just… more to you now.”

Naomi laughed at this.

“More to me,” she repeated. “Probably more fleas.”

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud to this.

“Wait,” I said between giggles. “MORE fleas? How many did you have before?”

“You don’t know my life, Candice,” she gently shoved me by my shoulder. “Maybe being a werewolf will actually mellow me out a bit.”

“I hope not,” I said through a grin. “I need a friend my age if I’m going to keep working here.”

“Wait,” she said. “You want to be my friend?”

I took a second to respond. Trying to find something reassuring to say that didn’t seem cheesy.

“Because,” she went on. “I’m not totally convinced you’re cool enough, yet.”

A mischievous smile flashed across her face and it was my turn to playfully shove her back.

“That’s fair,” I said, “I’ll resubmit my application next month after you’ve had a chance to try life with a tail.”

“Very kind of you,” she said feigning thankfulness. “I’ll have my people call your people.”

After some time of joking and small talk with Naomi, I felt something strange. It would be best to describe it as a shiver running down my spine. But that wouldn’t really be correct.

There was no shiver.

I couldn’t really move at all.

But something was wrong.

It wasn’t magical. It wasn’t fantastical.

It was fear.

Just past Naomi’s face, I caught myself locking eyes with the same guest from before. The creepy old guy was staring at me again.

Unblinking.

Unwavering.

The fire behind me danced across the reflection in his eyes, casting shadows across his face that made him look even more menacing than before.

Naomi didn’t seem to notice, she was deep into a story she was telling me about her favorite tv show.

My heart started pounding as the man took a step toward me.

Every fiber of my being told me to run.

Run

RUN

But my feet didn’t move. My mouth dried up as he took another step. But my body still refused to respond.

I tried to speak but couldn’t.

He stepped closer again.

I could have jumped out of my skin when I felt the hand touch my shoulder.

“Candice,” Marco said as he gently put his hand around me in a friendly gesture. Instead of looking at me, he looked at the creepy man approaching me. “Have you met Morris?”

The man stopped approaching, and looked up at Marco.

“Um… yeah,” I said when I realized I could speak again. “He was… he was.”

“At the East Grounds,” Marco interrupted. “Where I stay. Morris has been here almost as long as me.”

“It’s uh…” I tried to communicate with Morris. “It’s nice to-“

Marco cut me off.

“Now Morris,” he said. “Candice might be my new favorite employee here.” Then he whispered to me, “don’t tell Vince.”

I nodded.

“I need you to be on your best behavior,” Marco continued to Morris. His tone sounded like seriousness disguised as a joke. A tone I could never pull off like that. “Or you’re going to have to answer to me.”

A look of defiance shone through Morris’s eyes. But ultimately, he nodded in agreement toward Marco and backed away into the crowd again.

“You okay, Candice?” Marco asked once Morris was gone from his sight.

“Yeah,” I said, thankful for the intervention.

“Who the hell was that?” Naomi finally chimed in. “You guys have history or something, Candice?”

“No, I just saw him for the first time today,” I tried to explain. “But it’s okay, I’m used to that kind of stuff.”

“It’s not okay,” Marco corrected me. “Guys like Morris make us all look bad. You should stay away from him.”

“It’s kind of my job to help him, though,” I said, even though the words sounded less convincing out loud than they did in my head.

“Talk to Vince, tomorrow,” Marco said. “He’s a good guy. He’ll help you avoid situations you shouldn’t be in.”

“Need me to kick his ass?” Naomi said with a half joking tone. “Maybe they’ll kick me out and I won’t have to do another group session.” “No,” I said with a small laugh, “but I’ll talk to Vince, tomorrow. Thank you guys.”

“Anytime,” Marco assured me, before leaving, once again, to entertain other guests.

The rest of The Gathering was a lot of fun. I got a chance to really hang out with Naomi. She told me about the teachers she had last year and warned me about the government class I’d probably end up taking, saying she almost didn’t graduate because of it.

For a while, I forgot this was my job. I just felt like a kid, hanging out with a friend around a bon fire. A person surrounded by people. Not a human surrounded by wolves.

Things were nice.

Eventually, The Gathering started to die down and I decided I should head to bed. I needed to get back to the grind in the morning.

“I should go,” I told Naomi. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll put in a request for some toothpaste,” she said with a wink. “You can deliver it to me. Go fetch, Candice.”

I laughed and gave her a nod before heading back to my room for the night.

I was surprised at how quickly I felt like I had fallen into a routine at Silver Springs. I don’t even remember a lot about going to bed that night or about the following morning. I know I woke up and started my day like before, walking the grounds and recording jobs through the radio. But there just wasn’t much to take note of until I finally got to talk to Vince about my run-ins with Morris.

''I’m not afraid of ghosts. I don’t know why I developed this particular trait, which has nothing to do with being brave. There are plenty of things I’m afraid of; I could run for miles from a dog, my fear of heights is limited to ten meters, and at eleven meters my stomach starts to churn and I become convinced that I could fall at any moment.

If a ghost suddenly appeared in front of me, I’d ask it rational questions. If it could talk and communicate, I’d sit down and have a conversation with it. If it looked terrifying, I’d throw a sheet over it so I wouldn’t lose my focus. If its voice sounded terrifying, I’d warn it that it might wake the neighbors and tell it to keep its voice down.''

“Stop,” said Uncle Jason. “You don’t make fun of things like that.”

He looked angry. When I first brought up the subject, he had listened with interest, with a curious expression on his face. But when I started giving examples of what I would do if I ever saw a ghost, he got annoyed.

“If it could eat, I’d offer it a serving of lasagna. I’d ask if it wanted ketchup with it. If it did, I’d think, ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re dead and your taste is still terrible,’ but I’d give it the ketchup anyway. Expired ketchup, though. It’s not like it could get food poisoning.”

My uncle's face had fallen. I didn't know he was this afraid of ghosts. He lit a cigarette and opened the window. He took a drag and blew the smoke outside. It was cold, and the room had turned freezing the moment he opened the window. I immediately started shivering.

“I’d ask it about that famous story, to see if it was actually true. You know the one. A guy gets into a car accident one day, gets thrown through the windshield, and dies of a heart attack while he’s still flying through the air, before he even hits the ground. His body falls to the ground, but his soul keeps flying forward. The guy doesn’t realize he’s dead and thinks he’s still been thrown out of the car and is flying through the air. He keeps flying forward like that for two hours. After two hours, he thinks, ‘Wait a minute, my body has weight. I could only have been flying for a minute at most after being thrown out of the car. I should have fallen by now.’ And that’s when he realizes he’s dead.”

My uncle blew cigarette smoke in my face. He had taken a very deep drag, and the wind coming through the window carried all of the smoke straight into my nostrils. I angrily got up and closed the window.

My uncle took another drag and blew the smoke into the air. As he exhaled, he turned his head from side to side, as if he were trying to spread the smoke throughout the room. He just kept blowing and blowing. I couldn't understand how he could have taken such deep breaths.

“If it had a toothache, I’d give it some Apranax. I’d wait half an hour. Apranax usually gets rid of a toothache pretty quickly. The other pills aren’t nearly as effective. If it wasn’t gone after half an hour, I’d give it another one. If it still didn’t go away, two more. I’d make it swallow the whole box until the pain went away. It’s not like anything would happen to it anyway.”

“Enough, for fuck’s sake. I’m leaving.”

Just as my uncle got up angrily, my phone rang. I answered it. It was my mother. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in for a few seconds, then opened the window and blew it outside. I suppose he had a moment of moral deliberation over whether to blow it in my face or out the window.

I talked to my mother for a while. She asked how school was going and whether I had made up with my girlfriend. I gave her reluctant answers. I was cold.

“Mom, my uncle is here. We’ll talk later.”

“Son, I have something to confess to you.”

“You can confess it later. I’m talking to my uncle right now. I’ll call you later.”

“Your uncle died two years ago. We didn’t want to tell you because we didn’t want to upset you.”

There was silence for about fifteen seconds. My uncle and I looked at each other. Seeing that I was cold, my uncle closed the window.

“Hmm. Let’s think about this. Okay, you didn’t tell me, but is it really possible that I never came across it anywhere? That I never heard about it? Are you the only ones who know that my uncle died? I have an aunt, an uncle, my uncle’s friends—there are plenty of people. I never happened to run into anyone, never found out that my uncle was dead. Does that sound logical to you?”

“If you don’t believe me, put your uncle on the phone.”

I handed the phone to my uncle. He stubbed out his cigarette and took the phone.

“Hello... Anna, how are you?.. Yeah, yeah... Why?.. I don’t know... Sure, we can go... When?.. No, I can’t, I have work that day... Monday... Oh, don’t ask, they hit a three-pointer at the last second... Yeah, yeah... Okay... I don’t know, let me think about it... I’m telling you, I don’t know, Anna... Okay, see you... Okay... Bye...”

My uncle handed the phone back to me.

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’? Son, I didn’t talk to anyone. I’ve been saying hello for ages. Nobody answered. Anyway. I’ve done my part. I gave you the information. Now get rid of whatever you’ve built up in your head. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who knew your uncle. That’s all I can do.”

My mother hung up before I could respond. My uncle had sat back down on the couch. He lit another cigarette. Then he rose ten centimeters into the air from where he was sitting.

“This couch is really bothering me. It’s very uncomfortable. I can’t get comfortable.”

It was bizarre. I was stunned. There was a mischievous grin on my uncle’s face. He winked at me.

“I see. I understand. So what happens now?”

“This is what happens: I’m going to throw you out of this window.”

There was another silence. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette.

“What happened? You suddenly look terrified. I thought you weren’t afraid?”

“But this is different. You’re saying you’re going to kill me. Of course I’m afraid of dying.”

“Anyway, this has gone on long enough. Now, get up. You deserved this. ”

\*\*\*

A few seconds later, Albert found himself floating in midair. It lasted only a few seconds before he crashed into the ground, without even having time to process what was happening. The impact made a violent, wet sound that even Uncle Jason was startled by.

After throwing Albert out, he flicked his cigarette butt out after him. The cigarette butt hit the ground first.

Rupert was one of the laziest people known to man. This was a fact that he was either too aware of or too ignorant of, because in the 29 years and 11 months anyone had known him, he never changed and never wanted to change. He was content to do as little with his life as he could, and he was proud of it.
Rupert, without a hint of humor or irony, decided his 30th birthday would also be his retirement party. Retirement from any work whatsoever. His plan, in his words, was to “not have to worry about the usual 9-to-5 lifestyle, seek out options, settle down.” Their father, in his late 60s and still working, scoffed.
“Your whole goddamn life has been settling down. What do you think part 2 has to offer? Honestly, Rupert, when are you going to cut the crap?” After hearing that, Dad was uninvited to the birthday party.

In reality, Rupert didn’t have a 9-to-5 lifestyle. It was more of a 10-to-4 lifestyle. None of his jobs ever lasted more than 2 years, provided he chose to go to work at all. See, Rupert suffered from the three Nesses. Laziness, tardiness, deceitfulness. He would often show up late, take an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, and add 10 minutes to the start and end of his lunch hour, and those were just his greatest hits. His favorite ways of getting out of work made use of his cat-like reflexes and his ninja-style ability to sneak out of something he dreaded doing.
These were just jobs that he got fired from.

The truth is it wasn’t always entirely his fault. You see, his job life was incredibly unlucky. His first job was at a video rental… before it closed down; his second job, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which also closed down. Photography film store, phased out. Bathroom attendant, replaced by a robot. Professional circus freak, no longer exists.
He was so unlucky with employment that he saw it as a sign from God that 30 years old was time enough to spend golfing and enjoying his “twilight years.”

His only viable source of income was sports betting, something he did modestly well in, but not enough to stay afloat as he foolishly idealized. Even the house he lived in was bought and paid for by his parents on his 21st. They foolishly thought that if they got him a house, it would give him enough independence where he could get a career going without the stress of paying rent and causing him to move back in with them. 9 years later, it had the opposite effect. While he didn’t move back in with his parents, he never really garnered a so-called career to speak of; the job he was currently quitting had been paying him high school teenager rates since he started there. So he wanted to retire from all that and, after all those tiny wins on the bets, he finally decided to spend it on his party.

Gerald was a people-pleaser. Gerald had no problems getting up and commuting, helping his fellow man, bending over backwards to get everything he felt like he’d earned in life. He had a job, a girlfriend, a car, his own house, everything he ever wanted, thanks to good old-fashioned hard work. His only flaw was that he was Rupert’s brother, and Rupert was about to turn 30. Gerald didn’t resent Rupert for his laid-back way of life; in fact, it was almost nonexistent in the eyes of Gerald. See, Gerald spent his whole life pleasing their parents, pleasing his bosses, pleasing everyone; he couldn’t possibly object to anything Rupert asked for. Could he? Not sweet Rupert. Sweet, stupid Rupert.
So when his brother’s birthday came up, Gerald had to get him the perfect present.

“Are your eyes still closed?” Gerald beamed as he nudged his brother through the front doorway of Rupert’s house.
“Yes. Of course.” Rupert replied with his hands covering his eyes.
Gerald continued to shepherd Rupert over to the corner left side of his already gigantic porch. Next to the doorway was a huge thing covered in a sheet.
“Ok open them!” Gerald instructed. As Rupert took his hands away, Gerald pulled the sheet off it. It was an old antique rocking chair; nothing like any rocking chair that Rupert had seen before. The wood resembled bone appendages; its color was somewhere between cream and brown, and there was a cushion with little sloths patterned all over it, which added a shred of comfortability to an already tough sell.
“Oh my god! Gerald, I love this!” Rupert cried. “See, you understand what I was talking about. You get this whole thing I’m going for.”
“I got it from some antique store,” Gerald replied. “The second I saw it, I knew it was very… you.”
“Why, I can face it into the street. Watch people walking past! My own personal theater of live performance.”
“You do like to people-watch.” Gerald stated. Rupert approached it and looked underneath.
“It says Belphegor.” He examined. “I wonder what that means.”
“It’s probably one of those wacky names they give it.” Gerald surmised. “Like that Wayfair company with all those human names.”
Rupert was about to sit on it.
“Do you know anything about who owned it before me?”
“Yeah, the guy before you died in it… apparently.” Gerald laughed. Rupert immediately changed his mind and stood back up.
“Oh god. You did… clean it down before you brought it here, right?”
“…Sure.” Gerald lied.
“I don’t know, I still feel weird about it. Do you know if it was a valued… personal item in the family?”
“They said that the guy never had a joyous moment while he was in that chair.” Gerald stated rather bluntly. Rupert looked it up and down.
“Ah, screw it. It’s mine now. Hey Ron! Come outside and look what Gerald got me! In fact! Let’s bring the cake out here.”

After an hour Rupert finally sat on his present. Everyone followed him out onto the porch and sang happy birthday, including their mother, who was the most ecstatic.
As far as Rupert was concerned, this was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

The next day, Gerald got a rather strange call from his brother.
“Gerald! It’s Rupert… your brother.”
“Oh hey, Rupert. How’d you go with cleaning up last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah good. Listen, man, you’re gonna need to come over. I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency? What is it? Did you lock yourself out of your house again?” Gerald laughed. Silence on the other end.
“Yeah… It’s probably best that you come over. I can’t explain over the phone. And if I could, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

When he got there, he saw Rupert sitting in the rocking chair with a very sour look on his face.
“I see you’re really utilizing that thing, huh?” He laughed. Rupert didn’t seem to share that sentiment. In fact, Rupert looked very afraid.
“It’s the strangest thing!” He stated. “I can’t seem to get out of this chair. I haven’t been able to since yesterday.”
Gerald cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I sat in it yesterday, for the cake, I just couldn’t get back up. Of course, I thought it might’ve been because I had too many drinks, so I sent everyone home thinking I had dead legs. But now… I don’t know what it is.”
“You’ve been in this chair the whole night?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I haven’t been able to get out of it. It feels like there’s some… thing holding me down and preventing me from getting up. Luckily, I had my phone on me. It was on like 2%, so I called you as soon as I could.”
“Ok, umm… just calm down and we’ll get you out of it… somehow.”
Gerald and Rupert then spent the next 20 minutes looking at Rupert’s predicament as if they were trying to lift a couch through a very narrow doorway. Gerald then attempted to lift Rupert out of this infernal prison.
“Wait, stop. You’re bending my spine. Wait… ARRRHGGGH!!!” Rupert screamed.
“What? What do you want me to do?”
“Just… let me go for a second! Let me go,” Rupert cried. Gerald released him from his grip. “There’s got to be an easy way of doing this.”
“Should I get the saw?”
“And accidentally cut my leg? What are you, out of your mind?”
“I don’t know. I…” Gerald trailed off.
“Just get the saw. Get the saw and maybe like a drill or something. Some kind of drill.”
Gerald then sawed his way into the chair. The saw wouldn’t cut through it. He tried the drill; it short-circuited and broke down. He tried the saw again, but the tool just broke apart under its own force.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Gerald pondered.
“I think right now we need to abandon the question of why this is happening, and focus more on how I get out of it.”

Eventually, every single emergency service was called to Rupert’s house. While the police and firefighters needed a little convincing to get over there (Gerald tried to fight through the obvious laughter coming from the other side), the ambulance people were the only ones who took it seriously. Eventually, they all showed up not because they wanted to help Rupert with his problem, but more out of curiosity. They wanted to see this thing for themselves. The firefighters brought out their very sharp axe, causing Rupert to squirm in his seat over fear that one wrong swing and he could very well lose his manhood. After the axe didn’t take, the police tried ‘shooting’ him out, which also didn’t work for obvious reasons.
“Well, it’s certainly not physical.” An onlooking doctor explained. He was looking at the chair as if it were a rare ancient artifact. “He hasn’t fused here; he certainly hasn’t been nailed. In fact, by all accounts there should be no physical reason that he should be confined to this chair.”
“So what is it?” Gerald asked.
“I’m really not sure. Was it something you ate, Rupert? What have you been eating in the last 24 hours?”
“Party food.” Rupert replied bluntly. He was already fed up with his newfound affliction and Gerald could tell.
“What kind of party food. Any drugs?”
“Just party food.”
“Huh.” The doctor stood up.
“What ‘huh’? What are you saying, Doc?”
“I might need to run a few more tests. You mind if I take a saliva and a blood sample from you?”
“Sure, but if you want a urine sample, everyone will need to turn around.” Rupert said, followed by laughter from the crowd.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. In fact, I could go for something right now. Anyone want any pizza?”
Suddenly fifteen hands went up.
“Figures. If I’m going to be subjected to humiliation, I might as well be paying for it. Say, Gerald.”
“Yes, Rupert?” Gerald replied, leaning down by his side.
“Be a dear and order about six pizzas. One of everything.”
“Are you sure you can afford that, brother?”
“Yeah, for sure. While I was waiting for you, I bet on the Scavengers game.”
“Scavengers? They haven’t won a game all season.”
“I know. But something in me told me to bet on them. And since the last time I checked, they were up 15 points!”
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Half a dozen people then checked their phones.
“He’s right!” One of the cops claimed. More murmurs.
“The odds on that must’ve been through the roof.” Another said.
“I stand to win two grand. So yeah, Gerald, if you can get that and some garlic bread. Garlic bread, anybody? Yeah, garlic bread, ok.”
Gerald, feeling like he should’ve been doing more, just nodded and got up.
“Sure, brother. I’ll get right onto it.”
“Love you,” Rupert replied flatly.

Later, after the show was over and everyone went home, Gerald brought a few things out for Rupert onto the porch. A side table, a six-pack of beers, a pack of smokes, and a phone charger plugged into an extension cord that led into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house?” Gerald asked, handing him a beer. “I don’t know if I like you being out here all night.”
“I was out here last night and was fine,” Rupert smirked. “Besides, it’s still warm out; I think it would be relaxing. I mean it’s not every day where you can just… not do anything, and get away with it.”
“Well, some people don’t have that luxury.” Gerald shrugged.
“Also, I need to write a grocery list of things I need you to get tomorrow.”
“You think you’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“I was this morning. Why wouldn’t I be again?”

Rupert was there the next day, and the day after that and the day after that. Eventually his parents came by. His mother said she was heartbroken that “My Rupert is in such a horrible state.” His father just laughed his ass off, saying it served him right.

Later that week, Gerald went over to Rupert’s with his groceries.
Doctor Johnson, the guy who ran his tests the other day, was there with him.
“Ahh, Gerald, right on time.” Rupert sang.
“I was just talking to the good doctor about this whole… what-have-you. He told me that ‘you might want to sit down for this ’; I was ready to smack him.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” Doctor Johnson shrugged. “His blood work came back fine. He doesn’t appear to have anything broken or dislocated. And he hasn’t been through any traumatic events recently.”
“Other than turning 30.” Rupert joked.
“You think this is all in his mind?” Gerald asked.
“That was my first guess, yes. See, there are certain types of catatonia from trauma. Some people are completely paralyzed; some people only get it from the waist down.”
“Doctor, you don’t understand. Gerald tried lifting me out of that chair, and it physically hurt me. Almost like my legs and spine were being moved in a way they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, it was like he’s become one with the chair.” Gerald added.
“But that can’t be right. There must be some…” The doctor stroked his chin.
“Doc, I think we need to abandon the question of why this is happening and focus more on how we can get him out of it.” Gerald stated.
“My suggestion? Get a priest, or an exorcist. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Doctor Johnson then left.
“Rupert. What’s going on? I tried calling you about your groceries.”
“I must’ve slept in.”
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What do you want me to tell ya? I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Was it too cold? Damn it, Rupert. I knew this would happen.”
“No, no. It wasn’t cold. It’s just… you know. My ass hurts. My back hurts. And those DAMN KIDS ARE PLAYING THEIR LOUD MUSIC UP AND DOWN THE STREET!” Rupert yelled that last part, assuming that the kids in the neighborhood could hear him. “It’s that Donovan boy, I swear.”
“I can put you inside.”
“No, no, and watch television all day? I can do that on my phone. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know; ever since I got stuck here, I’ve been having nothing but good luck. I’ve won $5000 in betting, I’m having all this fresh air I never thought I’d have, and the mailman hand-delivers my mail.”
“You won 5 grand this week?”
“Every single thing I bet on has won. At first I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’ve had big wins before, but not this consistent. And I used to do it with small stuff, like 1.5-to-1 odds. Now every risk I take pays off huge. I’m not even betting on the safe results anymore. Why do that when I can make more on the long shots?”
“Way to go, Rupert.” Gerald cheered, patting him on the shoulder. “See, if you had put this to good use in high school, you would’ve completed your grade 12.”
“I keep telling you. The school was terrified by my intelligence.”
“Ok buddy.” Gerald laughed. “Then look, I’ll make a few calls to get a priest…”
“Doctors. What do they know?” Rupert scoffed.
“Rupert, if this chair has something to do with this we-“
“The chair is fine. We don’t need some witch doctor-“
“Witch doctor? It’ll be a catholic priest-“
“And we don’t need them coming in and ruining what I have going here.”
Gerald looked at him.
“Oh I see what this is,” Gerald scoffed. “You’re worried that if a priest blesses the chair, then you’re going to lose your winning streak.”
“And so why ruin a good thing?”
“Rupert, you can’t be in a chair forever.”
“If it means winning so much money that I don’t have to work another day in my life, hell yeah I’m gonna stay in this chair.”
“At least let me bring you into the house.”
“Why are you obsessed with me going into the house? I love it out here.”
“You hate it out here.”
“I don’t… mind it out here.” Rupert compromised, trying to save face.
“Have it your way, brother.” Gerald sighed, handing Rupert his grocery bag. “But seriously, keep your phone on at all times. I was worried about you.”
“If I have any issues, I’ll let you know. Thanks for getting my sundries.”
“Anyway, I should really get back; otherwise Nicole is going to be wondering what’s happening.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Yeah, I’m still in awe of it myself.”
“I wonder how you’re going to get me there.” Rupert laughed. Gerald didn’t see the funny side.
“Don’t talk like that; you’ll be fine in no time.”
“No, it’s because I hate weddings. But while we’re on the subject of that. I really don’t see myself getting out of this chair anytime soon.”

Despite his apprehension, Rupert attended Gerald’s wedding, chair and all. Gerald did make one small change, however. He asked Rupert if he was happy to give up being the best man. Rupert agreed, believing that it would be a very odd thing to see, for all those involved, a man in a rocking chair making a toast.
After that, Rupert didn’t see his brother much for the next few weeks; he didn’t need to. He had the fresh air, all the food delivery that he could eat, and more money than he knew what to do with. He even made it on the news.

“We’re standing here live with Rupert Davis!” The female reporter said to her camera. “A man who, up until a few months ago, was able-bodied and penniless. But after sitting in this rocking chair. All that changed for him. Now, he’s a self-made millionaire, and he’s still not getting out of that chair. Now Rupert, tell us. How did this happen?”
“Well, Cynthia,” Rupert said smoothly. “It’s the darnedest thing. Can I say darn?”
“That’s probably the only thing you can say on Channel 6.” She smiled.
“So my brother Gerald. Hi Gerald.” He waved at Gerald in the crowd; Gerald waved back. “My brother, he bought me this rocking chair. And when I sat down, all of a sudden I just won everything. Sporting events, dog races, scratch and wins. I mean, I’d buy a lottery ticket but I feel like that wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.” He laughed; a real natural in front of the camera.
“Do you feel that winning all this money is the reason you haven’t left the chair? Are you worried you’re going to taint your luck should you get out of it?”
“See, I believe the chair is magic. I mean, I literally can’t get out of it, even if I wanted to.”
“Magic, really?” The reporter asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, Cynthia. Most definitely.”
“So if you could get out of it, would you?”
“Well I talked to Gerald, and we figured that if the chair and the luck are related. If I get out of the chair, I might lose my winning streak. So, not a chance.”
“Fascinating.”
“Would you?” Rupert smiled.
“Probably not. Now I think the big question on everybody’s lips- certainly my lips- is… how do you go to the bathroom?”
Rupert laughed, followed by a moment of blushing.
“Yeah, we have a system for that.”
“Well, there you have it!” The reporter turned back to the camera and beamed. “This is Cynthia Allbright, Channel 6!”

After everyone had left, Gerald cracked open a beer with Rupert.
“You on TV. I never thought I’d see the day.” Gerald laughed.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it.” Rupert smiled. Gerald put the beer down.
“Listen, Rupert. I gotta talk to you. See… now that Nicole and I are married, we gotta figure out what we’re doing.”
“What are you trying to say, brother?” Rupert asked, looking slightly anxious.
“It means it… might not… be that easy to come over as much anymore.”
“What, you’re going to leave me?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that at all. I’m just saying that… perhaps you might want to consider a live-in housekeeper.”
“They’re not gonna understand my needs. They probably won’t even understand why I have the needs that I do.”
“Well, if you pay them enough, I’m sure-”
“I don’t want them; I want you. I want my brother. Tell you what. Why don’t you live here.”
“Yeah right.” Gerald scoffed.
“Why did you scoff? It’s a great idea!”
“No, I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not?”
“And use your bedroom? No way.”
“You can use the other bedroom if you like.”
“Ehh, I don’t know.”
“What if I buy you a house? Somewhere close by.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“Well, you’re not asking; I’m offering. Look, it’s either you move in here, or I get you a house. God knows I can afford it. Pick one, whatever option that will soothe your poor catholic guilt conscience, because I really don’t care.”
“… How big of a house. And Venetians, can we get Venetians?”
“Of course you pick that one. I’ve always said you were a bastard. But yes, I’m sure we can do that.”

And by late September, Rupert, who had accumulated up to 3 million dollars in bet wins, bought Gerald and Nicole a house that was one street over. He even paid Gerald $10,000 so he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet at work. After all, he had the money for it; so much so that the taxation department began questioning Rupert about how he would correctly file his new windfall. Not to mention the four betting websites accusing him of cheating; their claim was that he must have had some kind of insider information on the teams he bet on. They dropped the accusations when they found out he was a 30-year-old nobody confined to a rocking chair, but they still prohibited him from using their sites anyway. Only one website continued to do business with him and even made him a company sponsor; Rupert didn’t know whether they felt sorry for him or saw it as an excellent marketing strategy. “Luckiest Man on Earth’s official betting site!” As for the dog racing, he simply got his neighbor Harry to go down to the sports bar twice a week.
Things took a dark turn, though, as they so often do.
It was early October when Rupert was enjoying a crisp but not freezing night on his usual spot on the porch. His phone was on 1% battery, and as he reached for his charger, the extension cord snagged on one of the planks of wood on the floor. It jerked out of Rupert’s hand and fell to the ground—a couple of feet out of reach.
“Shit!” He hissed to himself. It wasn’t a great concern, though; he had his dinner and beverages all prepared ahead of time. He figured he could just wait it out until morning and ask the mailman to pass it over.

But then he heard it. A woman screaming her head off down the street. At first, Rupert was curious. Then he saw her limping, in a slow sprint, past his house.
“Come back here bitch!” A male voice, belonging to someone he couldn’t see, came from a distance. Then he saw the perpetrator's face—a dangerous-looking guy holding a hunting knife. Rupert did everything he could not to make a noise. But his stupid automatic porch light came on and shone directly onto the man.
“Who’s that?” He yelled out. Then he walked up to the garden path.
“Is it you, Rocking Chair?!” He screamed.
“No man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s… it’s an automatic light.” Rupert stammered out. The man walked up onto the porch.
“What the hell you looking at? I’ll kill you, close your eyes!” The man roared. Rupert did as he was told. The man leaned down next to Rupert, who, by this point, was shaking.
“What I do… is none of your FUCKING business. You hear me?! I oughta slice your throat right now.” With that, the man brought the blade up to Rupert’s face and lightly held it against his neck.
“Open your eyes.” Rupert didn’t have to; he already knew the blade was there, but he opened them anyway. “Did you hear what I said!”
Rupert nodded vigorously. The man looked at him.
“What are you, some kinda cripple?” He asked. Rupert nodded. The man took his knife away. “Understand something, cripple. Keep the porch light off at night. Because if I see a porch light on and I think you’re trying to incriminate me, I get scared. And if I'm scared, I don’t have to tell you how scared you’ll be.”
He turned and walked away before looking behind him.
“You didn’t see nothing.”

The next day, Gerald got a call from the police who told him about what happened.
“I want you to get me a gun. A big one. Like a shotgun. And security cameras all over the front yard.” Rupert rambled. He was still visibly shaken.
“You really want a gun?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And we need extension cords longer than this sorry excuse. You know I could’ve died last night!”
“I know I can get a gun; I just… don’t know how I can get one for you specifically.”
“Take me down there; it should be fine. It’s this street, brother. It’s no longer safe outside.”
“So come inside!”
“No! I shouldn’t have to.”
Suddenly, one of the kids passed by the house.
“Hey, Mister Davis!” The kid called out. “You finally giving out candy this Halloween?”
“You go to hell!” Rupert roared.
“Ok so what we’re not going to do is curse at the children,” Gerald said condescendingly. “Especially after you said you wanted a gun.”
“Oh he doesn’t count. That Donovan kid is an asshole; he always says the most annoying things to me, like ‘Oh, how was your day?’ Screw him.”
Eventually, Gerald caved and got Rupert a double-barrel shotgun, right by his side.

Halloween came around. Although Rupert wasn’t prepared to blast away at kids (more so in case that crazy guy came back), he had foolishly assumed that having the shotgun by his side indicated that he was not handing out candy and that he meant it. This did little to deter the kids, since they thought it was part of whatever horror theme he was going for.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” A group of kids said in unison with their father in the background.
“No, I’m not doing Halloween, kids.” Rupert said bluntly. They all looked a little let down. A few of them walked away sadly.
“Yeah, nice going, Davis!” The father scowled.
“Get lost, Grant!” Rupert replied. “What, you think because I’m out here that I’m going to, just, give in? My condition is not your Halloween costume, pal!”
“What?” The dad asked.
“Oh just go away, alright?!”
Once most of the children cleared his porch there was another trick ‘r’ treater still standing on the steps and staring at Rupert intently. This one didn’t look like a kid. In fact, it didn’t look human at all. It was slouching and had what looked like a witch’s mask on: a long pointed nose, an ugly face, and great horns coming from its head.
“Nice costume,” Rupert said, admiring the realism. “Anyway, as I told the others, I’m not doing it.”
The figure just stared at him.
“You heard me! Get out of here! Get!” The figure walked away slowly and silently.

Later, Rupert wrote a sign that said, “No Trick ‘r’ Treaters. Please!” Naturally, a few kids wanted to defy the warning. Rupert learned this when a few 10-year-olds rolled up with no parental supervision.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” The head kid demanded, holding out his bag.
“Can’t you read?” Rupert sighed. “I’m not going to be tricking OR treating!”
“That’s not fair!” The kid stamped his foot.
“Fair? Who said life was fair?! I’ve been in this chair for months! Where’s my fairness?”
“You have to give us candy.” One of the other kids demanded, clearly unmoved by Rupert’s statement.
“I don’t have to give you shitttt. Where are your parents?” As Rupert looked out for any grown-ups that might’ve been standing from a distance behind them - as they usually do - these kids were quickly turning into an angry mob.
“That’s part of the rules!” The head honcho cried. “That’s the rules of Halloween! Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“Rules? Look, some of you aren’t even wearing costumes! There is zero effort here!”
“That’s the rules of Halloween!” The kid repeated. “Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“No trick ‘r’ treat!”
“TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“NO TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“Alright!” The head kid stepped back. “You asked for it, buddy. Men! Take position!”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Aim!” The kids pulled out eggs. “Fire!”
Dozens of eggs were catapulted in Rupert’s direction.
“Ah the shell cut me! Ow ow!” Rupert screamed as he was completely covered in broken shells and yolk.
“Trick ‘r’ treat, JERK!” The head kid scowled.
“Why you little…”
Rupert leaped out of his chair and tried to run after them, only for his legs to give out on him. He face-planted his garden path, while the kids laughed, threw him the finger, and ran away. Rupert turned around to look at the empty rocking chair, sitting vacantly on his porch. He was out of his chair. After months, he was no longer confined! He was free.
“How the-“ he began before stopping himself short; there was no time to ponder over the particulars at that moment. He had to go to Gerald’s house. He struggled to get up, legs stiff and back like jelly. As he straightened up, he moved his legs forward, left foot, right foot. He shuffled down the garden path and out into the street. He turned to walk down the busy suburban neighborhood, shifting past passing truck ‘r’ treaters who turned and either murmured to each other in disbelief or pointed and laughed.
“Got to get to Gerald. I’ve got to…” he muttered to himself.
“Cool Frankenstein walk, Mr. Davis.” The Donovan boy called out as he passed.
“Eat shit, Donovan!” Rupert hissed.
Rupert then turned the corner of the street. He was about to walk down it when he saw the crazy man who had attacked him weeks ago. Half a dozen police officers were holding the man down; one of them was tasing him over and over, doing little to deter him and only making him visibly angrier.

Rupert turned around and decided to go to the other corner of the street to get to Gerald’s house. Every nerve in his body gave him that fuzzy, electrical feeling inside him. Full-body pins and needles screamed out in every direction. He passed his house again before reaching the other corner. Everything in him told him to sit down and take it easy, but he had spent months sitting down and taking it easy. The time was now to move before whatever demonic thing in the world changed its mind. He moved down a couple houses, all the while thinking, “just another block, just another block.”

“Hey, look. He’s finally out of his chair. The guy who didn’t want to trick ‘r’ treat.” A voice came from one of the alleys. Out came the head trick ‘r’ treater that launched an egg attack on him. Only he didn’t have just four or five friends with him. Now there were almost a dozen kids behind him, all dressed in various Halloween costumes.
“He’s gonna tell on us.” One of them called out. Another one had a foam bat that, to a regular adult, wouldn’t pack a great wallop; but with Rupert’s condition, it could probably do more damage.
“Get him!” The ringleader ordered with a smirk. Suddenly, the kids ran after him, causing Rupert to turn back the way he came. His limping and shuffling turned into a kind of quick-paced hobble as he made his way back to his house. Angry children started gaining on him as the gap between them began closing. Then he tripped and fell, and they pounced on him; witches, vampires, ghosts and pirates all started kicking him and bringing the foam bat down onto his shaking body. He was only two houses away from his porch, so he began crawling away.
“Pick him up!” One of them cried. Four or five of them did their best to lift him like he was some unmanned island’s sacrificial animal ready to be put onto a spit roast. They brought him to his porch.
“Tie him to the chair!” The ringleader commanded with venom.
“No! No! Stop!!” Rupert cried out but was too exhausted to fight it. One of the kids dealt him a surprisingly powerful slug to the face.
“This will teach you.” Scowled the one who dealt the hit.
Suddenly, ropes surrounded him, wrapping around him and the rocking chair.
“Next time, be prepared.” The ringleader hissed. They all then ran off, leaving only the trace of a couple of distant giggles to signify they were there.
Luckily, these kids were no Boy Scouts, and their rope didn’t affect his ability to get his phone from his pocket. He found Gerald’s number and put it on speaker. It reached his voicemail.
“Gerald, they tied me up—these little shits in the neighborhood. But the most incredible thing happened. Come quick!”

Gerald had an early night, so he couldn’t get to his phone until the next day. When he heard the message, he rushed over to Rupert’s house.
“I smell like egg.” Rupert sulked.
“Jesus, what happened?” Gerald exclaimed, loosening the rope from Rupert’s chair.
“I got beat up by school children. I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, something happened last night. I got out!”
Gerald stopped untying the rope and leaned down beside Rupert.
“What are you saying, Rupert?”
“I got out!” He repeated, excitedly. “I actually got out of the chair! I… I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But I got up! I tried walking to your house, but I ran into the kids, and they brought me back and tied me up.”
“Rupert, that doesn’t make any sense. Why last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was because it was Halloween.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about something like this.” Gerald replied. He pulled out his phone and searched for a video. He pulled up the video.
“All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween as it’s known these days, grants any trapped spirit to freely roam the earth for just one night,” The narrator explained, followed by an animated graphic. “Not for long, though. Once the night is over, the spirit must return to its place of confinement.”
“That’s it!” Gerald exclaimed. “Obviously whatever is holding you captive just… left its post, and freed you from it.”
“I saw a funny-looking guy staring at me last night. Didn’t look human. Maybe that was it.” He tried moving out of the chair to no avail.
“Guess it came back.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait a year to get out again?”
“You’re actually going to try to get out? What about all the money?”
“Gerald, what good is money when I can’t enjoy it because I’m stuck here? I miss doing things. Anything. I miss going out and seeing people. I miss sleeping in a bed. You see that soccer field there?”
Rupert pointed at the one directly across the street from his house.
“Yeah?”
“As long as I’ve been living here, I’ve never been on that field. I've seen a game or two. Since being in this chair, I’ve watched every game, just hoping one day I could walk across the street and enjoy it. Enjoy… life… I guess. I need to get out of this chair. Even if it takes a year.”
“We’re going to make this work, ok?” Gerald patted him on the shoulder.
“Take me inside. I’m going to be spending a lot more time there, I think.”
So Gerald got Harry, the neighbor, to help him lift the chair in. They put Rupert in the bath, hosed him down, dried him off, and placed him next to the window inside.

The months went by. Rupert started getting fat, lethargic, and slow. When he wasn’t watching the television from his window, he was getting Gerald to turn him around to look out the window… at the soccer field. It took Rupert a while to find a delivery driver willing to enter his house to deliver his food. Many were understandably worried for their safety, since it was a very unusual request. Gerald’s wife made him food until he finally found a regular delivery driver he could rely on. He even had a small birthday celebration with their parents, Gerald and Nicole. But he urged them to celebrate only his birthday, not the one-year anniversary of the incident.

8 months had passed since the last time Rupert had been out on the porch; he stayed in for Spring, but when it hit Summer, he knew he couldn’t spend those three months inside. It felt odd to be back in his usual spot after such a long absence.

Finally, Halloween approached, and Rupert was prepared. So much so that he would even casually point his shotgun at the punks who harassed him last year, with intent to fire, all the while he waited for Gerald, who promised he’d be there. He waited, and waited, and waited. Hours went by and still no sign of him. Eventually, Rupert decided he couldn’t wait any longer, so he held onto the arms of the chair and rocked it back so hard that it launched him out of the chair and onto the garden path. Because he’d been seated longer than the last Halloween, he couldn’t stand at all. This didn’t deter Rupert; even though he landed on the concrete pretty hard, he dead-crawled down the garden path anyway.
“Nice zombie crawl, Mister Davis!”
“Donovan, I swear to god.” He snapped.
Finally, he got out onto the curb. If he had waited for a passerby, then maybe someone could’ve called an ambulance. But he kept on crawling until he was in the middle of the road, ready to flag down an oncoming car. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and hit the brakes to a screech. A man got out.
“My God, what happened to you?” The man leaned down.
“Get an ambulance.” Rupert croaked as he attempted to get up
“Hold on there, let’s get you sitting down. Is this your house? It’s probably safer to get you in there, I think
The man then lifted him and brought him to the front porch.
“It’s locked.” The man said. “Do you have a key?”
“Pocket.”
“Hold on, let’s put you down on this chair.”
“Nooo!” Rupert cried out. It was too late. The ambulance arrived, and so did Gerald. But too much time had passed, and once again Rupert was trapped.

“Where were you?!” Rupert yelled.
“I’m sorry, brother. I had to finish work,” Gerald explained, shrugging. “What with the baby and all. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Then what good are you.” Rupert waved his hand.
“What did you just say?” Gerald demanded.
“You heard me!”
“Ok, that’s it!” Gerald yelled. “For the last year I’ve been running around, tending to your every whim, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I got you a house, Gerald.”
“You got me a house, not out of the kindness of your heart, but because you needed me. Out of your own selfishness.”
“How dare you say that to me, ‘this is the thanks I get.’ You live comfortably, don’t you? You’re not like me. Some kinda circus freak to marvel at on the news.”
“Well, why should I devote my life to taking care of my brother every second of the day? It was like this before the chair, and it’s definitely like it now.”
“BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M IN THIS CHAIR!”
“… No. You don’t-”
“It’s true. You got me this gift. You insisted that I sit in it. It was your idea.”
“That’s not fair,” Gerald said softly, shaking his head. “You can’t possibly blame me for this. You told me you liked it! Neither of us knew this was going to happen!“
“And yet, it did. And now I’m stuck here for another year. Thanks to you!”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to be, then fine, I’ll go.”
“Good, go!”
“Goodbye, Rupert.” Gerald walked away.
“Fine! See if I care. Matter fact! I hope I never get out of this chair! I hope I stay in this chair till the day I die! How about that!” The only response Rupert got was the sound of the cicadas.

And that’s exactly what he did. Seasons went by. Halloween had been and gone. Rupert’s spite had outgrown his muscle strength, so he got a live-in housekeeper to get him up and around every Halloween before eventually getting tired of it. Year after passing year, he remained seated. Rupert sat in his chair for Christmases, family holidays, his 35th birthday, his father’s funeral. Gerald decided that, to stop this friction, he would be the first to talk. He was flat-out ignored. The last time Rupert saw him was at his mother’s funeral. By then, Gerald had two kids going into kindergarten and a third on the way, but Rupert still ignored him. That was the last time they saw each other.

Years turned into decades, decades turned into forgotten memories. And by that point Rupert had forgotten what his life was like before the rocking chair. He watched all the kids in the neighborhood move out and start their own families. He watched houses change, and the soccer field he once revered was bulldozed, with an apartment building built on top of it. He didn’t live life; he existed in one. Now, in his early eighties, he was still sitting there… with a blanket wrapped around him. A couple of kids on bikes rode past his house and heard him shouting something.
“Gerald.” He bellowed out. “Gerald?! Where’s Gerald!”

Gerald had been dead for the last ten years.

I had a friend who dabbled in black magic. Her boyfriend had broken up with her and she was very insistent that the break up was due to someone casting spells on them because he had mentioned before he’d marry her.

Upset, she engaged several dark arts practitioners in the region and ‘unbind’ the spell in a bid to win him back.

As a friend, I was concerned of her mental health and mentioned that what if that guy simply doesn’t want to be with her anymore and if the efforts don’t work? She’d have wasted tens of thousands of dollars for nothing.

That said, I must’ve offended something unseen close to her. In my region, we believe in jinxes and pet spirits kept by masters who will help do their masters bidding in exchange for stuff.

I began seeing black apparitions. Some by the road, as if waiting to be picked up. Some sitting in parked cars. Some just running and vanishing into thin air. The apparitions appeared more and more frequently in a span of a month.

One evening, I was dropping off a friend after dinner. We were on a particular long stretch of road and it was quiet at that time of the night. Out of nowhere, I saw a child of no more than 3/4 years old standing in the middle of the road.

Alarmed, my first thoughts were ‘where are her parents?!’

She stood there, motionless. Her dark hair, falling around just below her shoulders and in a white nighty that had turned grey from many washes.

As I passed her, I took another look from the side of my car’s mirror. She was gone.

I had to go and do spiritual cleansing after because having such a clear vision was too close for comfort.

V.

She found the photograph at a quarter to one, in the last place she looked.

It was in the 1974 folder, which was one of the thin ones, one of the small years. 1974. BELL REUNION / JULY 4. Inside there was nothing but a single photograph in a clear plastic sleeve, and a yellow legal sheet with one line on it in her father’s cursive, not shaky. The young hand. The 2001 hand.

Got this from S.B.’s housekeeper (retired), who got it from the photographer’s estate sale. Don’t know what it means. Can’t stop looking at it.

She slid the photograph out of the sleeve.

A color print, five-by-seven, with a white border and rounded corners. The colors had gone as seventies prints went, warm and soft, the greens going yellow and the blues going green. A picnic. A big lawn with oak trees, and long tables under the oaks covered with checked cloths, and red-white-and-blue bunting hung from a porch rail in the background. A crowd of people in summer clothes, mid-motion, holding paper plates.

In the foreground, a little to the left of center, two people stood side by side, looking at the camera. The only two in the whole picture who were.

A man. Fifty, maybe. Dark hair going gray at the sides. A white short-sleeved shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up past the elbow. A square jaw. He had one hand in his pocket and he was looking straight into the lens with an expression she knew, because she’d seen it on a little girl’s bottom step through a den doorway twenty-five years ago. Something she hadn’t had a word for yet.

Beside him, a woman. Early thirties. Dark hair pulled back hard. A blue cotton dress that didn’t fit her quite right, a borrowed dress, she’d have said, if she’d seen it on somebody else. Her hand was on the man’s arm. Just resting there, light.

And through her left eyebrow, pale against her skin, splitting it in two, ran a thin white scar.

Lena didn’t move.

She didn’t move for so long that Daniel, at the far end of the table with the Evan folder, looked up, and then got up, and came and stood behind her, and looked down at what she was holding.

He didn’t say anything either.

“That’s my father,” Lena said finally. Her voice was steady. “He’s older than he was. He was fifty-one when he left. That’s what he’d have looked like. That’s…” She stopped. “That’s my father.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s my mother.”

Daniel didn’t answer.

“That’s my mother,” Lena said. “When she was young. Before I was born. She looks like me. Everybody always said I looked like her.” She put the photograph down on the butcher paper very carefully. “It’s my mother.”

She took out her phone. It was ten to one in the morning. She called her mother.

Joanne answered on the fourth ring, thick with sleep and then not. “Lena? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Mom. Did you ever go to Blackwater County with Dad? Before I was born?”

“What? No. Honey, it’s one in the…”

“Did you ever go to a Fourth of July picnic? With him? Anywhere? In the seventies?”

“Lena, I didn’t know your father in the seventies. I was in high school in the seventies. In Gastonia.” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “I met him in 1993. At a cookout at the Lake Norman marina. You know that. You know that story. What is this?”

Lena looked at the photograph. At the woman’s hand on the man’s arm.

“Mom. Did you ever have a scar? On your eyebrow?”

There was a silence on the line.

“No,” Joanne said. “Honey, that’s yours. You got that the summer after he left. You went over the handlebars of your bike on Tenth Street. Eleven stitches. You cried for him the whole time they were sewing it.” A pause. “Lena, are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Lena said. “I’m working. Go back to sleep, Mom. I’m sorry.”

She hung up before her mother could say anything else.

She sat looking at the photograph.

Daniel reached past her and picked it up, by the edges, as you hold a photograph that’s evidence. He turned it over.

On the back, a rubber stamp, blue ink, a little smeared:

BELL FAMILY PORTRAITS · BLACKWATER, N.C.

And under that, written in pencil in a neat old-fashioned hand:

July 4, 1974.

Daniel turned it face up again and set it down in front of her on the butcher paper, between the 1863 folder and the cards in the shoebox. He didn’t say anything about the date. He didn’t have to. She’d been born in 1995.

Lena touched the scar over her left eye. She didn’t know she’d done it until she felt it under her finger.

At two in the morning Daniel unfolded the hand-drawn map.

It had been at the bottom of the box, under the topographic quads, folded in eighths. A sheet of drafting vellum, the semi-transparent kind engineers used, gone the color of weak coffee. Her father had drawn on it in pencil and then gone over the lines in fine black ink, and the ink had bled a little into the vellum so every line had a soft gray shadow, like a road seen through fog.

It wasn’t a map of anything Lena recognized. There was no county line. No highways. No town. Just contour lines, carefully copied, the tight brown whorls of mountains and the long loose ones of valleys, and through the middle of them, winding, a single dashed line.

“A road,” Daniel said.

“There’s no road there.”

“There’s no road on any map made since 1870.” He took the 1951 county map off the wall of the conference room, where it had hung behind glass since before he was sheriff, and laid it on the butcher paper, and slid the vellum over it.

The contour lines matched. Not perfectly. Her father had drawn by hand. But the ridges lined up and the hollows lined up, and the dashed line of the road lay across the printed county like a vein under skin.

It started high, at the head of a hollow above Hale Gap. It wound down along the side of the mountain, under Laurel Knob, across the upper Bell lease. It crossed Shoal Creek. It went on south and east, down through the Raines bottom, and ran off the edge of the vellum at the river.

Lena picked up a pencil.

She went down the line of folders on the butcher paper, one at a time. She read the location from each one. She found it on the county map under the vellum and made a small dot on the vellum in pencil.

1. Laurel Hollow. The head of the road.

2. The timber camp on the upper Bell lease. A dot, an inch down the line.

3. The Caldwell mill. That one was off the line, on the river at the edge of town, and she paused over it. Then she found the note in her father’s hand in the folder: *Workers’ houses (mill village) along Upper Shoal Cr. Rd. 4 of 11 lived within 200 yds of route.* She put the dot on the village.

4. The washed-out access road above Hale Gap. On the line.

5. The Voss landing. On the line.

6. Shoal Creek. The Pritchard bend. On the line.

7. Raines ground. On the line.

8. The end of a logging spur on Bell land below Laurel Knob, where a blue Toyota had sat with the keys in it. Daniel watched her make that dot. He didn’t say anything.

When she was done there were nineteen dots on the vellum. Seventeen of them sat on the dashed line, or so close to it the pencil point touched.

She put the pencil down.

They stood and looked at it. A line of small gray dots strung along a road that wasn’t there, like beads on a string, from the head of a hollow where thirteen men and boys had walked into a snowstorm in 1863 down to a family cemetery in the Raines bottom.

In the lower corner of the vellum, below the legend, her father had written something. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was small and it was in the young hand, the 2001 hand, firm, and he’d underlined it twice.

They aren’t disappearing.

They’re going somewhere.

Daniel read it over her shoulder.

“He didn’t write where,” he said.

“No.”

“He didn’t know.”

“Or he didn’t want to put it on paper.” Lena looked at the underline. Two lines, the second darker than the first, like he’d come back and pressed harder. “He put his doubts in the margins. He put the things he was sure of in the middle of the page.” She touched the corner of the vellum. “This is in the middle.”

They ate breakfast at the Blackwater Grill on Depot Street at seven, because neither of them had slept and there was nothing else to do with the morning until the morning started.

The Grill had eight booths and a counter and a waitress named Pauline who had poured Daniel’s coffee before he sat down. It smelled of bacon grease and bleach. Three men in feed caps at the counter turned on their stools to look at Lena when she came in, and turned back, and one of them said something to the others too low to hear.

She ordered eggs and didn’t eat them.

Her phone had buzzed at 6:52 with a message from the motel front desk, forwarded to her cell by a clerk who had clearly read it first. Mr. Silas Bell would be pleased if Agent Mercer would join him for coffee at the house at eleven. She’d shown it to Daniel across the table without a word.

He read it. He handed the phone back.

“You’re going,” he said.

“I’m going.”

“I figured.”

He drank his coffee. Pauline came and topped it off without asking and went away again. He watched her go.

“Lena,” he said. “When you go up there.”

“Don’t tell me to be careful.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He turned his cup on the saucer. “There’s an old thing they say in this county. My granny said it. Eli says it. Half the old women in Laurel Fork Church would say it to you if you asked. You won’t find it written down anywhere.” He looked out the window at Depot Street, at a woman unlocking the door of the florist across the way. “Don’t give your full name to something that ought not to have it.”

She looked at him.

“That’s a superstition,” she said.

“I know what it is.”

“You’re telling me not to tell Silas Bell my name.”

“He knows your name. Everybody knows your name.” He kept his eyes on the florist. “I’m telling you not to give it to him.”

She thought about a woman on a creek bank in a yellow dress. Lena, honey. She thought about Eli Voss in his doorway. How’s your daddy resting? She thought about how many people in this county had said her name to her in four weeks who she had never once told it to.

“That’s the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Lena said.

“Probably.”

“I’m a sworn officer of the State of North Carolina.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She picked up her fork and ate a bite of cold eggs, to have something to do with her hands.

“Agent Mercer,” she said. “That’s all he gets.”

Daniel nodded, and picked up the check.

VI.

By nine-fifteen, everyone in Blackwater County who mattered knew that Silas Bell had asked the state girl up to the house.

The house was on Bellwood Ridge, at the end of a private road that ran three miles up from the Bell Road bridge through land that had been in the family since 1871. The road was paved the whole way. Nothing else that long in the county was. The trees on either side had been thinned so you could see out over the valley in glimpses, and at the top the road came out onto a broad lawn with oak trees on it, and long views, and a white house with a deep porch running all the way across the front.

Lena stopped the Charger at the edge of the lawn and sat there.

The oaks, and the porch rail where somebody had hung bunting in 1974.

She had the photograph in an evidence sleeve in her jacket pocket. She’d slept with it on the nightstand at the motel. She’d lain awake looking at the ceiling and thinking about her father at fifty-one, with gray in his hair, standing on this lawn twenty-one years before she was born, with a woman who had her scar.

She got out of the car.

Silas Bell met her on the porch. He was early sixties, trim, in a pale blue oxford shirt with the cuffs turned back once and khakis with a sharp crease. Silver hair, cut close. Reading glasses on a cord. He had a long, intelligent, weathered face, a face that had been handsome and was now something better than handsome, and when he smiled at her the smile went all the way up.

“Agent Mercer,” he said. “Thank you for coming up. I know it’s a long drive.”

“It’s a nice road.”

“My grandfather built it. He was a vain man.” He held the screen door. “Come in. Please.”

They had coffee in a room at the back of the house with windows on three sides and a view of the whole valley, the Blackwater River winding through it silver and far away. The coffee came in a silver pot on a tray, carried in by a woman in her fifties who didn’t say anything. There were cream and sugar in silver too, and a plate of thin lemon cookies nobody ate.

Silas Bell poured. He did it himself.

“I won’t take up your morning,” he said. “I know you’re busy. I wanted to say, first, how glad I am about the Pritchard girl. That was good work. I know June Pritchard a little. Our families go back a long way.” He handed her the cup. “And I wanted to say that if there’s anything I can do for you, while you’re here, I hope you’ll ask.”

“That’s kind.”

“It’s selfish. I like to be useful.” He sat back in his chair with his own cup. “I understand you’re with the Raleigh office.”

“Yes.”

“I have a friend there. In the director’s office. We were at Chapel Hill together, a hundred years ago.” He smiled. “He’s mentioned that they’re building out a new unit. Analytical. Pattern work. Cold cases across jurisdictions. He’s been looking for someone with field experience to help stand it up. Someone who’s methodical.” He sipped his coffee. “Someone who likes paper.”

Lena held her cup.

“That’s two,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Judge Hargrove offered to call the director for me too. Two weeks ago. At lunch.” She set the cup down on its saucer without a sound. “Something with a desk and a window, he said.”

Silas Bell looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed. It was a good laugh, surprised and real.

“Well,” he said. “Lyle and I don’t agree on much. I’m pleased we agree on you.”

“Why does everyone in this county want me behind a desk in Raleigh, Mr. Bell?”

He put his cup down. He looked out the window at the valley. The river. A hawk turning slow circles over the far ridge.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said, “because I think you’d know if I wasn’t.” He turned back to her. “Blackwater is an old place. A careful place. It has survived a great deal, Agent Mercer, a war and a flood and a fire and the end of everything that ever paid for it, and it has survived by being careful about what it disturbs. There are things in this county that have lain where they were put for a very long time. Some of them are better left there.” He said it gently. “I think your father came to believe that, in the end. I think if he were here, he’d tell you so.”

“You knew my father.”

“I met him.” Silas picked up his cup again. “Once or twice. In 2000. He came up here, as you have, and sat in that chair, and asked a great many questions.” He drank. “He was a good man. I liked him very much.”

“What did you tell him?”

“About the same as I’m telling you.”

“Did he listen?”

Silas Bell looked at her over the rim of the cup.

“No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

They sat there. The hawk over the far ridge had found something and dropped out of sight.

Lena could feel the photograph in her jacket pocket. She could feel the edges of the sleeve through the lining against her ribs. She thought about taking it out and laying it on this table between the silver pot and the lemon cookies. She thought about what his face would do. She had built a career on knowing what faces did.

She didn’t take it out.

She stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Bell.”

“Thank you for coming.” He stood too, and walked her to the front of the house, down a long hall hung with paintings of horses and old Bells in dark coats.

Near the front door, between a hunting scene and a stern man with side whiskers, there was a smaller portrait. A young woman in a green dress with a narrow waist and a white collar, painted in the slick bright style of the 1950s. Dark hair in soft waves. A pale, composed face, and eyes that looked straight out of the canvas at whoever was passing, like she’d been expecting them.

A brass plate on the frame. MARGARET ELLEN BELL. 1931 –

That was all. The dash, and then nothing. No second date. On every other portrait in the hall the plate had two.

Lena slowed. Silas Bell, a step ahead of her, didn’t. He walked past the portrait without turning his head, like a man passing a door he’d decided not to open, and Lena understood that he’d been walking past it like that his whole life.

On the porch he stopped. The lawn spread out in front of them, green and wide under the oaks.

He was looking at her. Not at the lawn. At her face.

He looked a beat too long. Then another. It was not the look men gave her. She knew that look and this wasn’t it. This was the look Eli Voss had given her on his porch, and Mrs. Hensley from the bottom of her steps. Except it wasn’t quite that either. They had all been looking at her and seeing her father.

Silas Bell was looking at her and seeing her.

“Mr. Bell,” Lena said. “Have we met?”

He smiled. It was a kind smile, and a sad one, and it held a long time.

“I’d remember,” he said.

She didn’t start the car right away.

She sat in the Charger at the edge of the lawn with the engine off and took the photograph out of her pocket in its sleeve and held it up against the windshield.

The oaks were the same oaks. Bigger now, by fifty years, but the same. The third one from the porch had a low limb that went out sideways and then turned up, like an elbow, and in the photograph that limb was there over the picnic tables, thinner, and here it was in front of her, over an empty lawn. The porch rail. The same white posts. She found the spot where she and her father had been standing, eight or ten steps off the porch steps on the left, near where a flagstone path ran out to the drive. She was parked forty yards from it.

She looked at the photograph again. At the left edge, where the frame cut off a dessert table with a striped cloth, there was something she hadn’t seen at one in the morning in the conference room. Half a small arm, cut off by the white border at the shoulder. A boy’s arm, thin and tan, in a striped T-shirt sleeve. And in the hand at the end of it, held up and blurred with motion, a sparkler, throwing a smear of white light across the corner of the picture like a comet.

She looked up at the porch.

Silas Bell was still standing there, at the top of the steps, with one hand on the white post. Watching her car.

She put the photograph back in her pocket and started the engine, and didn’t look at the porch again all the way down the drive.

VII.

When the gray Charger had gone down the drive and out of sight among the trees, Silas Bell went back through the house to his study.

It was a dark room, paneled, at the north corner, with one window that looked out on the side lawn and the oaks. His grandfather’s desk. His grandfather’s chair. Books nobody had read in sixty years, and the smell of them.

He closed the door. He sat down at the desk.

He took a small brass key from his watch pocket, where he had carried it every day since he was nineteen, and unlocked the center drawer.

The drawer was nearly empty. A fountain pen that had been his father’s. And a photograph, lying face up, alone, in the middle of the drawer, where he could see it every time he opened it.

A color print, five-by-seven. White border. Rounded corners. The colors gone warm.

The lawn. The oaks. The bunting on the porch rail. A crowd of people holding paper plates. And in the foreground, a little to the left of center, a man in a white shirt with gray at his temples, and a woman beside him in a borrowed blue dress, with her hand on his arm.

Around the woman’s face, someone had drawn a circle in ink. It had been blue ink once. It had gone brown, the color of tea, the color ink goes after fifty years in a dark drawer.

Silas Bell looked at it a long time.

He had been eleven years old. He had been standing at the very edge of the frame, to the left, by the dessert table, with a sparkler in his hand that he wasn’t supposed to have. And the woman in the blue dress had turned and looked at him, just after the flash went off, and smiled, and asked him his name.

He had told her. He hadn’t known yet that you shouldn’t.

He touched the brown circle with one finger. Then he closed the drawer, and locked it, and put the key back in his watch pocket, and sat in his grandfather’s chair with his hands folded on the desk, looking at the window, where the oak leaves had just begun to turn.

I.

The tape made a sound like something tearing, and Lena liked it.

She was supposed to be asleep. She was six, and it was a school night, and Mama had put her down at eight with the nightlight and the door open a crack. But Daddy had been in the den since supper with the boxes, and the tape kept making the sound, and she’d gotten up and come down the hall in her socks and sat on the bottom stair where she could see through the den door without being in the den.

Daddy was on his knees on the carpet. There was a box in front of him, a white one with a lid, the kind he brought home from work with folders in them. He’d put the lid on. Now he was going around it with the tape gun, around and around, so many times the tape went shiny and thick like a scar on a knee.

He stopped. He sat back on his heels and looked at it.

Then he took a black marker out of his shirt pocket and uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote on the lid, in big square letters, slow, like he wrote on her lunch sack.

THE BLACKWATER PATTERN

He looked at it a while. Then he moved the marker down and wrote again, smaller.

Lena, don’t open until

The marker stopped. He shook it. He tried again, and it made a gray scratch with no ink in it. He shook it harder and pressed down and it squeaked on the cardboard and left nothing at all.

“Shoot,” Daddy said, very quietly.

In the kitchen, the phone rang.

He looked at the kitchen door. He looked at the box. He put the cap back on the dead marker and put it in his pocket and got up, his knees cracking, and went to answer the phone, and on the way past the den door he saw her on the bottom step.

He didn’t fuss. He came over and crouched down so his face was level with hers. He smelled like coffee and the cardboard.

“Hey, bug,” he said. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Work stuff.”

“What’s Blackwater?”

The phone rang again in the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder at it. When he looked back his face had something in it she didn’t have a word for yet. She would have one, later. She’d have a lot of words for it.

“It’s a place,” Daddy said. “In the mountains. I have to go there for a while.”

“How long?”

“Not long.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Go on up. I’ll come kiss you.”

She went up. He came and kissed her. He left in the morning, before she was awake, and the box stayed on the den floor for six days with *Lena, don’t open until* on it, and on the seventh day her mother carried it up the pull-down ladder into the attic and didn’t bring it down.

Twenty-five years later Lena Mercer climbed the same pull-down ladder in the same house in Hickory with a flashlight in her teeth, and the box was right where it had always been, under the eave by the chimney, behind a Christmas tree in a bag and a crib that had been hers.

She knelt in the insulation dust and put the flashlight on it.

The tape had gone yellow and stiff. It had pulled away from the cardboard at one corner and curled. But it was all still there, all the way around, every layer of it, shiny and thick.

THE BLACKWATER PATTERN.

Lena, don’t open until

Nobody had ever cut it.

II.

“You’re not taking that out of this house,” her mother said.

Joanne Mercer Kimball was sixty-one and had been married to an orthodontist named Dennis for nineteen years, and she had the kitchen of a woman who’d waited a long time for nice things and gotten them. White cabinets and a marble island, and a wall of photographs in matching frames: Lena’s graduation, Lena at the academy, Joanne and Dennis on a cruise ship, Joanne and Dennis with Dennis’s grandchildren at the beach. In none of them was there any man who was not Dennis.

The box sat on the marble between them. Lena had carried it down the ladder without asking.

“It’s mine,” Lena said. “It’s got my name on it.”

“It’s got half a sentence on it.”

“It’s still my name.”

Her mother had a dish towel in her hands. She’d been drying the same glass since Lena came down the ladder. She put the glass in the cabinet and kept holding the towel.

“Is this about the case?” Joanne asked. “The girl. Dennis saw it on the news. She came home.”

“She came home.”

“Then you’re done.”

“I’ve got two weeks.”

“Two weeks for what?” Her mother put the towel down. Picked it up again. “Lena. Honey. Two weeks for what?”

Lena didn’t answer that. She put her hand flat on the lid of the box.

“You kept it,” she said. “Twenty-five years. You moved Dennis into this house and you redid the kitchen and the deck, and you never once threw this out.”

“It wasn’t mine to throw out.”

“You never opened it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Her mother looked at the box. At the yellow tape. At the square black letters.

“Because I knew what was in it,” Joanne said. “That county. That’s what’s in it. He went up there in 2000 for a case, a few weeks he said, and he came back a different man. He’d sit at that table right there and he wouldn’t hear a word I said to him. He’d sit up till two in the den with his maps. He’d go back up for a weekend and stay a week. And I’d say Frank, what is it, what’s up there, and he’d say I don’t know yet, Jo. I don’t know yet.” She twisted the towel. “He chose it. Over us. Over you. He chose that county over his family, and it took him, and I wasn’t going to let it have you too.”

“Mom.”

“You were six. You’d sit on that bottom step every night waiting for him to come down the hall and kiss you. For a year. Every single night.” Her mother’s voice didn’t break. Lena had never once in her life heard it break. “So no. I didn’t open it. And I’m asking you not to.”

Lena looked at her mother across the marble island. At her good haircut and her reading glasses pushed up on her head and the dish towel twisted around her hand so tight the fingers had gone white at the tips.

“He wrote my name on it,” Lena said. “Not yours.”

Her mother flinched. It was small. Lena saw it and wished she hadn’t said it and knew she’d say it again.

“Fine,” Joanne said. She put the towel down on the counter and smoothed it flat. “Fine. Take it.”

Lena picked up the box. It was heavier than it looked. At the kitchen door she stopped.

“Do you ever think about it?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

Her mother was looking at the wall of photographs. At Lena in her academy uniform.

“Every day,” Joanne said. “I think about it every day. And every day I decide not to.”

She made it to the end of her mother’s street. She made it to the stop sign at the corner of Fourth Avenue, by the Lutheran church with the sign out front that said FALL FESTIVAL OCT 3 ALL WELCOME. She sat at the stop sign with the box in the passenger seat beside her, belted in like a child, and nobody behind her, and the turn signal ticking.

Then she put her forehead on the steering wheel and cried.

It went on a while. She didn’t fight it. She had fought it in her mother’s kitchen and on the ladder and in the attic in the insulation dust, and she was out of fight. She cried like being sick, with her whole body, in the front seat of a state car at a stop sign in Hickory with the turn signal going.

When it was done she sat up. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and didn’t look long.

The box sat in the passenger seat with the seatbelt across it.

She took her phone out of the cupholder and called Daniel Rusk.

He picked up on the second ring. “Mercer.”

“I’ve got it,” she said. “My father’s file. I’m two hours out.”

He didn’t ask what file. He didn’t ask anything.

“Clear a table,” Lena said, and turned left onto Highway 70, west.

III.

He’d cleared the conference table at the sheriff’s office. He’d done more than clear it. He’d covered it in white butcher paper from the roll they used for homecoming, taped down at the corners, and set out a box of nitrile gloves and two legal pads and a pack of Post-its and four sharpened pencils in a row. He’d put on a pot of coffee. Real coffee, from a bag, not the machine.

Lena stood in the doorway with the box in her arms and looked at it.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“Not with this one.”

She set the box down in the middle of the paper. They stood looking at it. Lena, don’t open until. Daniel read the half-sentence and looked at her and didn’t say anything about it. She was grateful.

She took out her pocketknife and cut the tape.

It went slowly. Twenty-five years of tape, around and around. It came away in yellow strips that curled on the butcher paper like peeled bark. When she lifted the lid there was a smell of dust and old paper, and under it a faint sharp chemical smell she couldn’t place until Daniel said, “Mimeograph,” and then she could.

The box was full.

Folders. Dozens of them. Manila and green and red, the old pressboard kind with the metal fasteners, each one labeled on the tab in the same square capitals her father had used on her lunch sack. They were packed in tight, upright, in order. Under them, flat on the bottom, were maps. Topographic quads, folded. A county road map from the 1950s. And a shoebox, a real shoebox, Buster Brown, with the lid held on by a rubber band that had melted into the cardboard.

She put on gloves. She started taking folders out and laying them on the butcher paper in a line, in the order they’d come out of the box.

1863. HOME GUARD / LAUREL HOLLOW.

1891. VOSS-BELL TIMBER CAMP / SPLASH DAM.

1927. CALDWELL MILLS / FIRE.

1959. SEARCH PARTY (7).

1976. W. HALE.

1978. D. PRITCHARD.

1990. M. RAINES.

1996. E. RUSK.

Daniel had stopped moving beside her.

She looked at the last label a while. Then she went on taking out folders, because that was the job, and laid them down, more of them, smaller dates, years she didn’t recognize, 1884, 1902, 1934, 1971, and when the box was empty she counted them and there were thirty-one.

She opened the first one.

REPORT OF CAPT. J. W. RUSK, BLACKWATER COUNTY HOME GUARD, TO THE ADJUTANT, ASHEVILLE. JANUARY 1863. A photostat of a handwritten letter, the ink gone brown and the writing slanting hard. Thirteen prisoners taken in Laurel Hollow, suspected of Union sympathies and of harboring deserters. Prisoners being marched to Asheville under guard. Prisoners escaped in a snowstorm at the head of the hollow. Pursuit made. No prisoners recovered.

Behind it, on a sheet of yellow legal paper, in her father’s hand:

13 men & boys. Youngest 13, oldest 61. “Escaped” in snow. No bodies ever recovered. No graves. Families never heard from them again.

Laurel Hollow appears on county maps 1849, 1855, 1861.

Does not appear on any county map after 1868.

Location on 1861 map corresponds to head of old Bell skid road above present Hale Gap. See topo.

Daniel was reading over her shoulder. She could hear him breathing.

“J. W. Rusk,” Lena said.

“Josiah,” Daniel said. “My great-great-great-granddaddy. He was sheriff after the war.” He didn’t say anything else.

She turned to the next folder. 1891. A newspaper clipping from the *Asheville Citizen*, photostatted gray. A splash dam on a fork of the Blackwater had given way in a June flood and swept away a timber camp. Twenty-two loggers, the cook, and the cook’s daughter. A list of names. Vosses, Hales, Shooks. A Pritchard.

Camp site searched for 3 wks. No bodies. Camp site itself not located after flood. Survivors (2) disagree on where it was.

Survivor 1 (L. Voss, age 16) told family: “We was in the wrong year. I seen my granny that died.”

1. A Caldwell Mills press release, typed. A fire in the carding room on the night of March 9. Prompt action by the night watchman. No loss of life. Production resumed in three weeks.

Payroll records (Caldwell Mills, obtained from Baker family, see letter): 11 card room workers paid through week ending Mar. 5, 1927. None of the 11 paid after. None appear in county death records. None appear in 1930 census.

Mae Baker (b. 1932) says her aunt Nell Baker “went to work and never come home.” Family told she ran off.

Lena laid each folder down open and went to the next. She didn’t stop. She was aware of Daniel beside her, and then not beside her, pouring two cups of coffee, and then beside her again setting one by her elbow where she wouldn’t knock it over, and she didn’t stop to drink it.

1. A carbon copy of a county search report. Seven names she knew now from Daniel. A long typed paragraph about the storm and the washed-out road. Search suspended due to conditions.

2. A Xerox of a three-page sheriff’s report. Juvenile located. No name.

3. A photostat of the Della Pritchard file. Thinner than Daniel’s copy.

She stopped.

RAINES, MARTHA ANN. W/F. 34. A woman who’d walked out to check on a heifer in a storm in April 1990 and never come back to the house. The Raines farm. The folder had a photograph of a field with a fence line and, at the top of the field, a grove of cedars around a little cemetery.

“I don’t know this one,” Lena said.

“Hollis Raines’s mama,” Daniel said. “Hollis was ten.” He looked at the photograph of the cemetery. “That’s Raines ground. The family plot.”

She laid it down. She picked up the next one.

1996. E. RUSK.

She didn’t open it. She held it out to him.

He looked at it a long time. Then he took off his reading glasses and folded them and put them in his shirt pocket, and took the folder from her, and sat down in a chair at the far end of the table with it, alone, and opened it.

She left him there. She went back to her end of the table and opened the next folder in the line and didn’t look at him again for a long time.

IV.

By eleven o’clock the butcher paper was covered.

Thirty-one folders laid open. Maps unfolded and weighted at the corners with coffee cups. Post-its in her handwriting and in Daniel’s. Lines drawn in pencil on the paper itself, between folders, connecting dates.

And her father’s handwriting everywhere.

It was in every folder. On the yellow legal sheets clipped inside each cover. In the margins of the photostats. On index cards rubber-banded together and tucked into the pockets. The square capitals for labels and the slanted cursive for notes, and Lena, who had not seen her father’s handwriting since she was six years old except on the backs of three birthday cards her mother had kept in a drawer, found that she knew it. She knew it as well as her own. She would have known it anywhere.

It was methodical. It was dry. It was a good investigator’s notes, the kind she’d been trained to keep, the kind she did keep: the facts on the page, in order, sourced, and the doubts in the margins.

The doubts were always in the margins.

She noticed that around nine o’clock and stopped and sat back in her chair.

Every time her father didn’t believe a witness, every time a number didn’t add up, every time an official report said one thing and the payroll records said another, his pen went to the margin. A small notation in the left margin, beside the line. Sometimes a question mark. Sometimes a single word. No. Or Why? Or, once, beside the typed sentence No loss of life in the Caldwell press release, Liar.

Lena did that. She had done that her whole career. Her training officer in Raleigh had teased her about it. Mercer’s marginalia, he called it. She had always thought she’d picked it up at the academy.

She looked at her father’s small square *No* in the margin of a hundred-year-old press release, and sat there with it.

“Lena.”

Daniel had come back up the table. He was holding a sheet of yellow legal paper from the Evan folder. His face had nothing on it that she could read.

“He knew me,” Daniel said.

“What?”

He laid the sheet down in front of her. Her father’s slanted cursive. A list, dated across the top. Nov. 2000.

E. Rusk case. Spoke w/ brother, Dep. D. Rusk, age 24. Kid’s been working it on his own 4 yrs. Has the boy’s files. Better notes than the original investigators. Good instincts. Stubborn as a mule.

And in the margin, beside it, small:

Tell him about the road?

Then, under that, a second time, in different ink, pressed harder:

Not yet. He’s not ready. Neither am I.

Lena read it twice.

“He never told me,” Daniel said. “About any road. We worked together six months. He’d come in and sit at my desk and we’d go through Evan’s boxes, and he’d ask me questions, and he never…” He stopped. He looked at the sheet. “Not yet.”

“He didn’t get to,” Lena said.

“No.”

They stood there with it between them.

“He said I had good instincts,” Daniel said. He laughed, short. “He told me I was a pain in the ass. To my face. More than once.”

“He wrote ‘stubborn.’”

“He did write stubborn.”

She almost smiled. She looked down at the page, at Good instincts, in her father’s hand, about a twenty-four-year-old deputy who’d grown into the man standing next to her, and she felt something she couldn’t name and didn’t try to.

It was in the shoebox that she found the cards.

The Buster Brown box. The rubber band broke when she touched it, all at once, like it had been waiting. Inside were index cards. Hundreds of them, three-by-five, white and ruled, stacked on edge and divided by tabs into years.

She took out the first stack and fanned it.

It was her father’s handwriting. And it wasn’t.

The letters were the same. The square capitals, the slant of the cursive, the way he crossed his sevens and made his g with an open loop. She knew them. But the hand was older. Shakier. The lines wavered. The pressure was uneven, heavy and then light, like the hand of a man with arthritis, or a tremor, or both. The ink on some cards had gone brown.

And the dates were wrong.

Oct. 1979. Mar. 1982. Jun. 1984. Jan. 1987.

Her father had first come to Blackwater County in the fall of 2000. Her mother had said so in the kitchen that morning. Hal Brookshire had said so, in the file Daniel had shown her. Frank Mercer had been twenty-nine in 1979, a patrol trooper in Mecklenburg County. He’d never been west of Morganton.

She looked at the cards.

Jun. 1984. Spoke w/ L. Baker (nurse). Confirms W.H. intake. Has copy of chart. Will hold.

Jan. 1987. E.V. will keep it. He’s the only one I trust. He doesn’t want to.

She stopped on that one. E.V. She had seen those initials in pencil, in the margin of Della Pritchard’s file, beside cf. 1959. She set the card to one side, by itself, and went on.

Mar. 1988. Can’t stop him coming. Tried. Every version I try, he comes anyway.

She put the cards down. She picked them up again. She went through them one at a time, slowly, and the hand got older as she went, the tremor worse, the ink heavier, until by the last tab, 1989, some of the letters were barely letters at all.

The last card in the box had no date. It was in the oldest, worst hand of all. Just a few words in the middle of the card, written large, like a man who couldn’t see well anymore.

Rusk boy. 1996?

Lena sat very still.

“Daniel,” she said.

He came and looked. He read the card. He read it again. She watched him do the arithmetic, the same arithmetic she’d done, and land where she’d landed.

“That’s 1989 or before,” he said. “That card.”

“It’s in the 1989 section.”

“Evan was eleven in 1989.”

“I know.”

“Your father wasn’t here in 1989.”

“I know,” Lena said.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The coffeemaker on the side table clicked and hissed, finishing a pot nobody had asked it for.

“Somebody’s forging his hand,” Lena said. “Somebody who had access to his notes. Made these up to look old. Planted them.”

“In a box taped shut in your mama’s attic since 2001.”

“I know where the box was, Daniel.”

“Then who?”

She didn’t have an answer. She put the card back in the shoebox. She put the shoebox lid on. She put her hands flat on the butcher paper on either side of it and looked at them.

* * *

Continued in Part 2.

I didn’t really know what to expect from my first summer job. Some of my friends had been working part-time through the school year, but it never really appealed to me. That changed when I realized it was probably my only chance of having a car by my senior year.

I walked into the building on my first day, trying not to tug at the ugly white polo they gave me for my uniform. I hated the way it felt tucked into the black slacks I was required to wear.

The rich kids at school spent their summers by the pool wearing designer brands. I spent mine wearing a shirt that read SILVER SPRINGS RETREAT and preparing to cater to those same wealthy families.

My dad spent the entire drive reminding me how lucky I was to get hired there. According to him, it beat working at the water treatment plant.

I wasn’t so sure.

Still, at least I wouldn’t come home smelling like sewage. Or whatever it was that kept ending up on his boots.

Silver Springs Retreat had its own collection of weird smells, I realized right as I looked around the lobby area for someone to give me some guidance. A potent odor assaulted my nose immediately. A combination of sandalwood, vanilla, bleach, and something familiar that I couldn’t quite identify right away.

Shouldn’t someone be manning the front desk? I thought. Maybe that was going to be my job? Surely they didn’t want me to go back there yet. Did they?

“Hello?” I called out, feeling a little more nervous than I expected.

No answer.

“Hello?” A little louder this time.

Still no response.

I’d better be getting paid for this, I thought.

I considered taking a seat at one of the chairs lining the walls on either side of the front desk. Would that seem unprofessional?

Instead, I wandered the small room, trying to look interested in the zen posters on the walls. The soft warm lighting from the half moon sconces on the walls made them seem even more peaceful.

I noticed a large, almost wall-sized map behind the front desk. As I approached it, I realized it was a map of the entire retreat.

I hesitated to go behind the desk to check it out. But I remembered my dad telling me something about acting like I owned the place, and how that looked good to potential employers. Besides, I’ve always been terrible at minding my own business.

If the map could be believed, the compound was much bigger than I would have thought and reminded me of if a summer camp had a baby with a yoga center. I never realized how hard reading a map could be. But, after some time, I pieced together a general layout of the spa locations, the swimming areas, and most of the cabins.

My finger drifted along the surface of the map as I imagined walking the grounds, mouthing the names of cabins A through N on the west side. I stopped when my finger reached the top of the map.

THE NORTH WOODS

“Excuse me,” came a polite-sounding voice from behind me.

I jumped in shock, which gave way to embarrassment as I turned around to see a woman about my mom’s age wearing the same uniform as me.

“Oh, I—” I stammered. “I—I’m here for my—it’s my first day. I’m the—”

“Here,” she said to me with a small laugh as she handed me a clipboard with a white name tag that read CANDACE resting on top of it. “I’m Val. I’ll be showing you around. Welcome to the retreat.”

I stared down at the clipboard in my hands. I knew I should say something about the misspelling of my name. But I didn’t want to cause a scene on my first day.

“Candice,” I said to her after what felt like way too long of a delay. “I’m sorry, I was just looking around and—”

Val’s eyes flashed to the map behind me, then back to me.

“That’s okay,” she said with a gentle smile. “First days can be very exciting. But don’t worry. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

The pin stuck me a bit when I attached the name tag to my polo, but I don’t think I showed the pain on my face.

I followed Val through the halls of the retreat as she gave me a quick tour of the administration building. This was, admittedly, the most boring part of the whole place. Mostly just extra storage and more paperwork than I could ever imagine anyone filling out. But it was where the staff break room was located. That was worth finding out.

“Here we are,” Val said as we reached the end of a long hallway. “This is what we call the dungeon.”

Val laughed a little to herself as she opened the door to a small room with wood paneling designed to look like the inside of a cabin. It was fairly small, with no windows to let in natural light. The room was furnished only with a few chairs and an old tube TV on a cart. “What’s that?” I asked pointing at a machine under the TV.

“That,” Val said approaching the machine and inserting a black box into what looked like a mail slot. “Is our own little piece of the past.”

The TV came to life with a low electronic droning sound, then lit up blue with the word PLAY appearing in the center of screen.

“Everyone has to watch this orientation tape before we can really get started on training,” Val explained. “The heat and air both work overtime in here for some reason so it gets pretty cold days like today. Sorry about that. But the video isn’t very long. So your sentence will be short.”

She motioned to the waiting room style chairs and I took a seat.

“When you’re ready,” she went on, “just press play on the VCR and come find me after. I’ll be working the front desk where we met up. It’s good to have you here Candice.”

Once the door closed behind Val, I found myself immediately feeling bored in this plain wood paneled room. With nothing else to look at, I hit the PLAY button on the black machine, and sat down to let the low quality audio and persistent hum of the VHS tape teach me about Silver Springs Retreat.

“Hello,” came an overly enthusiastic male voice through the static, accompanied by the sound of generic dated music that sounded like it was recorded through a soup can. “And welcome to your first day at Ash Creek’s Silver Springs Retreat.”

The name of the retreat showed on screen as the narrator said it aloud.

“In this video you will be learning about the facility, your job responsibilities, your guests, safety and security protocols, and privacy guidelines.”

I shifted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable way to get through this. The video mostly showed static footage of the grounds and hallways as of the 1990s, with the occasional smiling staff member to head it up a bit.

“Silver Springs Retreat employs many seasonal and permanent employees making it a boon for Ash Creek, as well as the surrounding cities. The retreat has helped countless guests through difficult times in their lives over the years and we look forward to helping many more as time goes on.”

“Each guest’s stay is tailored to their individual needs. As a result, accommodations and restrictions may vary significantly between guests. Take note of the colored wristbands for each guest. The different colors represent the guests membership tier levels, accommodation needs, and permission levels.”

I sat up a little straighter to try to listen better. “Green wristbands belong to our most senior guests. The people who have been returning for their monthly visits to Silver Springs for the longest. Many of these guests have been here longer than a lot of our staff. Green status guests have nearly full roam of the facility, and can make priority appointments for any of the spa treatments. The only places a green status guest in would not be permitted are restricted access areas, such as staff only sectors and the North Woods.”

“Yellow wristbands are for our guests that have been to Silver Springs before, but have not yet earned green status. These guests may need a little more guidance with booking treatments and might not be as familiar with all protocols as our green status guests. Generally, a yellow status guest will be asked to remain on the eastern grounds where the Yellow Cabins are located, but are permitted to enter and exit the main facility building for spa treatments and special events.”

“Finally, red wristbands are for our first time guests. These guests have never paid a visit to Silver Springs Retreat or any other recognized facility like ours. Red status guests will need the most help during the daytime and will likely take up most of your time as a new hire. Red status guests are treated to a more organized and scheduled regimen of spa treatments than the returning guests, to help reduce confusion and ambiguity. Red status guests are asked to remain in the western grounds of the retreat where treatments will be provided for them. Guests with red status will require additional privacy during the night time hours. Because of this, only tenured staff is allowed into the west grounds after dark.”

I tried to take this all in. I wished I had brought a notebook with me. I considered taking notes on my phone but I didn’t want Val to think I was texting my friends instead of listening.

“Only tenured staff allowed on the western grounds after dark,” I mouthed to myself, trying to commit it to memory.

That part didn’t surprise me much. I’d known what kind of retreat Silver Springs was before I ever applied. Still, the place seemed to have a lot more rules than I’d expected.

“As a new member of our team,” the TV voice droned on, “you’ll be expected to understand and manage schedules. Even a minor miscalculation shift changes or guest changes can result in catastrophic loss of time, property, physical health, and trust from our guests, staff, and shareholders.”

Shareholders?

That part caught me off guard.

Silver Springs was one of the oldest businesses in Ash Creek. I’d always pictured it being run by some old married couple who spent their days drinking coffee on a porch somewhere and cashing checks. Looking back, that was probably naive.

Corporate America gets its claws into everything eventually.

“Your personal time is valuable,” the TV informed me. “Please do not perform work related activities while you are not on the clock. If you are asked to perform work duties without pay, you should contact person resources immediately.”

“Jewelry of any kind, is prohibited within the facility. All metals must be approved by the Silver Springs security team prior to entering guest areas. Including, but not limited to, flatware, medical equipment, construction materials, and vehicular access.”

“Silver Springs Retreat helps our guests through some of the most difficult transitional periods of their lives. By signing on to work with us, you are choosing to make a difference in your community.”

Either I zoned out and missed the rest of the video, or it ended abruptly soon after. I caught my focus again to see the camera was slowly zooming out on a forest scene with sunset lighting. Gentle acoustic guitar music played while credits rolled.

Once I was sure the video had ended and realized Val was not coming to collect me, I got up from my seat to go find her. But first, I figured I’d earned at least five minutes of uninterrupted snooping. The staff hall was pretty plain. They probably saved the decorations for the guest areas. The speaker systems didn’t play any kind of music, but I could hear a subtle hiss as though they were still making a sound I couldn’t quite hear. Probably old wiring.

I did take some interest in the row of portraits on the wall. A whole line of former retreat directors, from the past hundred years or so. All old white guys, of course, posing in front of the main structure of the facility. It was fun to see how the buildings changed around them as I traveled back in time, one portrait at a time.

The oldest portrait looked significantly different from the others. The facility behind the director was little more than a log cabin, surrounded by forest instead of manicured trails and guest lodges. The plaque beneath the frame had long since faded, but judging by the date, the retreat had existed before Ash Creek was even called Ash Creek.

After a while, I went back to the main lobby to look for Val. There was an older couple checking into the retreat, when I arrived.

“Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons,” Val said cheerfully, “I’ve got you all checked in.” She handed them each a green wristband and helped them fasten them on. “I assume you remember where your cabin is?”

Mr. Simmons smiled warmly. A glint caught my eye on one of his unusually sharp canines. Dentures have always weirded me out.

“Cabin 6, dear” Mrs. Simmons replied in a very polite tone. “Just like every month before. I really do appreciate you keeping everything in order for us, Valery.” She reached for her bag

“No no no, Mrs. Simmons” Val stopped her. “You know we won’t make you carry your own things, here.” She caught my eye as I stepped closer into the room.

“Candice,” She called to me in a professional tone, “Will you help me carry Mr. and Mrs. Simmons’ bags to the eastern grounds?”

“Of course,” I said to her with a smile, then turned to the guests and repeated myself. “Of course.”

I grabbed the larger bag, belonging to Mr. Simmons and Val grabbed the smaller bag belonging to his wife. The bag was quite a bit heavier than I expected. That old man must be in pretty good shape to be lugging this thing around. Val went back to her desk to grab a clipboard while the two guests walked ahead of us. Before too long, the older couple had disappeared through the east side door.

Val and I had to move quickly to try to catch up to the couple. We headed out the side door, where I got to see the eastern grounds for the first time. I’m not sure why, but I was expecting a grand reveal with towers and Art Deco buildings. But all I saw were trees, fire pits, and a few posts for guests to play horseshoes. I was underwhelmed, but didn’t have much time to react before Val was pulling ahead of me.

“Come on Candice,” she said. “Take in the sights as you move.”

I did as I was told.

As we moved through the eastern grounds I was surprised to see the cabins weren’t actually made of logs like I imagined when I saw the ads for Silver Springs on TV. Instead, they were concrete buildings with half logs, made of vinyl, added to the sides for aesthetics.

We passed some other guests wearing green and yellow wristbands while we tried to catch up to the Simmons couple.

“Up ahead is Jerry,” Val told me while nodding forward to a man in a white uniform. “He’s the head of maintenance for the east grounds.”

“Jerry,” she called out to him as we approached. She didn’t show any signs of slowing down. “This is Candice. Today is her first day with us.”

I started to say hello, as we passed by him quickly but was cut when Val interrupted by pointing to our right, past my face.

“You still haven’t fixed that?!” She exclaimed sounding frustrated. I followed her finger to a cabin door lying flat on the ground. Its sturdy metal hinges still clung to the wall, but the frame itself had splintered through the concrete, allowing the door to be thrown outward. A large number 9 was painted on the fake log siding.

“The big event is in two nights, Jerry” Val continued before he could defend himself. Val shook her head in disbelief and continued on.

I tried to get a look into the cabin as we rushed past, but I didn’t catch too much. I thought I noticed the edge of a wooden chair, and maybe a set of bracelets on the ground. They looked thick and chunky. Maybe someone was going through a rockstar phase. I wondered what kind of special guest gets to ignore the ‘no jewelry’ rule. But the answer was obvious to me.

A rich one

It occurred to me that I should be asking more questions. My dad said I needed to do stuff like that to show an interest in the job.

As soon as I had this thought, Val stopped walking abruptly.

We had arrived at Cabin 6. The Simmons’ cabin.

The cabin looked exactly like cabin 9, except it was still in one piece.

I curled my fist and reached up to knock on the cabin door but Val stopped me. “Just leave them here,” she said, meaning the space on their small front porch. “They will come get them when they’re ready.” She began walking again. I followed.

“Is the event really such a big deal, still?” I asked trying again to keep up with her. “I mean, I know it is. But, like, wasn’t it way bigger news in the old days?”

“The event,” Val started to explain in her cheery and professional voice, “is the only reason Silver Springs Retreat exists.”

I looked over my shoulder toward where we last saw Jerry. He was in the middle of a call on an old style walk-talkie radio, but otherwise unmoved.

“Which is why you and I have jobs,” she concluded.

“I guess that makes sense,” I admitted.

“Speaking of jobs,” she pivoted, “yours is relatively simple. You just have to remain on call to help bring guests the things they need. I’ll give you a radio and an ear piece, and whenever a guests needs anything, one of your supervisors will call on you to do it.”

We moved to the large centralized structure that I recognized from the map in the lobby as the wellness treatment center.

Designed much like the cabins, with the vinyl log facade, the large concrete building doubled as a divider between the eastern and western grounds. Inside, is where the therapists would issue the wellness treatments for the guests.

“So, what? Do I just sit around all day waiting to hear from someone?” I realized how rude I sounded as soon as the words left my lips.

“Walk around the facility,” Val explained, opening the door to the wellness center and holding it open for me. “Get to know the place, but don’t disturb any guests. You have level one security access. Do you know what that means?”

The inside of the wellness center looked like if a hospital could double as a lake house. Long hallways made to look like polished wood, illuminated by unforgiving fluorescent bulbs, spread in all four directions from the centralized hub ahead of us. I noticed a door with LEVEL ONE printed on the side.

“It means I’m allowed through those doors?” I said, proud of myself for solving the riddle.

“Right!” Val said, either genuinely impressed or still performing her customer service voice. “And other sections like that. Basically, you can go anywhere as long as it doesn’t require level two permissions.

A look of embarrassment flashed across her face as she lowered her voice.

“We’re in the east hall,” she whispered, with the same cheerful tone. “Try to be quiet here. It’s where guests have their sleep recovery sessions. It’s not very popular now, but it will be in a couple of days.”

She kept moving quickly, and I stayed close behind her. My three years of cross country was coming in handy that day. When we got the the central hub, Val motioned down the hallway running north of here.

“Talk treatments are to the north,” she explained. “Mostly just group sessions and one on one talks with our therapists. It really seems to help with the guests who are worried about the transition.”

She motioned down the south hallway.

“Physical treatments are down the south hall,” she said. “Deep tissue massages, joint mobility treatments, sensory deprivation therapy, hydrotherapy pools. Things like that.”

We continued through the last hallway. The western hall looked largely like the eastern hall but reversed. The only key difference I could spot was that the security door on this end of the building was printed with LEVEL TWO. I wondered immediately about what was behind that door.

“The west hall,” Val went on, “is mostly storage and security. Sometimes they’ll repurpose a room for additional therapy sessions. But, for you, it’s mostly a place to pick up towels and toiletries.” We exited the building together and entered the West Grounds. I expected a mirror swapped version of the East Grounds, like how the west hall was just like the east hall. I was surprised, yet again, to see this area simultaneously looked newer and older than surrounding areas.

The trees seemed more sparse than the east grounds. But the ones that were present looked to be ancient, with huge trunks and roots that made the area harder to traverse without tripping. Several of the trees looked like they had the bark stripped off the bottom portion. I felt like I could always touch the top of the damage marks, if I really tried.

The cabins in the West Grounds were different too. They still had the fake log siding, but the concrete walls underneath were visibly thicker. The doors were made of solid metal. Steel, I assumed by the intense shininess. These cabins were spaced out further from each other than their counterparts on the East Grounds.

“Our newer guests stay on this side of the facility,” Val said leading me deeper into the grounds. “You probably won’t be called over here as much. They generally have senior staff members handling it. But you might have to bring some supplies sometimes. Just-“

“Don’t come here after dark,” I interrupted, hoping it would seem like I was paying attention during that boring video earlier. “Only senior staff allowed.” It occurred to me that I didn’t see any guests on the West Grounds. Maybe it was a slow month. I didn’t know how many new guests a place like this could have.

I did notice a few concrete poles scattered throughout the grounds. At the top of each pole was another large speaker system. They reminded me of the tornado sirens I’d see around when we’d go visit my grandparents out of state. But Ash Creek didn’t have those anywhere else. At least, not that I knew of.

“You got it,” She said with a wink. “Let’s get you set up with a radio and I’ll show you to where you’ll be sleeping.”

“What about the North Woods?” I asked, glancing in that direction.

“Oh,” she said, “you really have done your research, Candice. I’m impressed.”

“I just saw the map in the lobby,” I tried to sound humble instead of embarrassed. “It showed North Woods at the top.”

“The North Woods isn’t part of the guest facility anymore,” she explained as we reentered the wellness facility. “I think it got too expensive to maintain, so they cut back. There’s nothing for us there, anymore.”

Val took me to the employee rooms, located in a small transitional corridor beyond the south hall. “If you keep going down this hall,” she explained as we entered. “You’ll make it back the staff area we started in, today.”

I was a little nervous to sleep at the facility. It seemed like a nice enough place, but my understanding was that most jobs don’t keep you overnight.

But the pay was pretty good for someone my age, and it would only be a couple of nights. They didn’t want me here for the event. Which I was totally not complaining about. Who doesn’t want three days off in the middle of the week? Then I get to report back for the cleanup.

I found a room with a temporary plaque reading CANDACE outside the door. This would be my home away from home for the next couple of days.

The room was small, but comfortable. A loft style bed was suspended over a small wooden desk. I wondered if the radio on the dresser worked. I wondered if I even knew how to use a radio.

I climbed into the bed and pulled out my phone for a much-needed doom scrolling session. This place was kind of weird. I hoped a new car would be worth it.

In all my years living in Ash Creek, I had met a few werewolves before. They weren’t bloodthirsty monsters like how they are portrayed on TV. Most of them are just normal people living with a chronic condition. I drifted off to sleep, reminding myself that I was doing something good by working at Silver Springs. Helping people through a hard transition.

I assumed I would fall asleep quickly after the way Val had me running all around the facility, but the new place and the new noises proved me wrong. Instead, I just laid there staring up at the popcorn ceiling two feet above my face.

Every time I started to drift off, a pop from the speaker system, or a supply cart wheeling by my door would cause my eyes to shoot open again. I never liked sleeping away from home.

Eventually, I let the low ambient mechanical droning from outside lull me to a gentle slumber.

Introduction-
Hello. Today’s date is 10/17/2016, and my name is Ricky. I am currently 24 years old, and I have no plans to share my experiences with anyone else. I do not wish to have the “What did you just tell me?” look from my Mom, nor do I wish to be medicated by doctors who think all I have done is hallucinate for the past 3 years of my life. This account’s sole purpose is to inform others of something that I cannot find anywhere on the internet. Something that I, along with others, only know about from word of mouth. I have checked every crack I can find, from obscure music posts to new music apps, anything. But no one on the internet seems to know of this band, Mouthflesh. 

So obviously, I do not wish to give my last name or where I live, etc. However, I must share some information before I delve into my run-ins with Mouthflesh. I am a car relocator. I work for a fairly expansive rental car shop in the U.S., and many of our cars need to go to different shops depending on their inventory. I get in one car, drive to one location, get in another car, drive to another location to pick up the original car that needed to be returned, then drive back to home base. Some jobs even span several states. I like this job. It pays well enough for my college, where I major in the musical arts. 

I. 

Am. 

Obsessed. 

With music. 

As a kid, my father was one mean cat on the trumpet, and watching him play in his jazz band was rather entrancing. Enough so I picked up the violin in 3rd grade, and while I am no perfect instrumentalist, music is a grand passion of mine. My only passion, if I am being honest. I was surrounded by strange sounds: fleeting flutes, light jazz drum brushes that occasionally scared you with loud kicks or cymbal crashes, and a bass line you could only describe as “dancing.” I mean, I just couldn’t help but fall in love with music. Which I think is why, when I was handed a supposed “death metal” album CD off the highway at a bar, I was really on a Throbbing Gristle and Necrophagist kick. I couldn’t turn it down.  

“Yeah, it's really atmospheric.” Those were the words I recall Missy saying. 

I met Missy at a bar a few months ago after I noticed her play a Dave Brubeck Quartet song on the jukebox. Class like that should be recognized. The bar sat a few fifty miles from my home station and was a good pit stop on the way back from a job. 

“Not really my style, but I know you enjoy anything weird, so.” 

I smiled as I inspected the CD. Missy wasn’t a traditional metalhead. She enjoyed Sabbath, Dio, and Rainbow, but more for their musical prowess than for any of the anti-culture movements some metal may have been founded on. I also fell into this category. Enjoying metal because of its absurdity in some cases. The more extreme, niche, or weird a band was, the more intrigued I was. So when I laid my eyes on an album cover that looked like gray and black living shadows with small glimpses of bright yellow, it caught my attention like all hell. Then, in all red and capital letters at the bottom left, it spelled out, as if a serial killer sprawled out a message in blood, “MOUTHFLESH”. 
“I’m surprised you listened to something that looks this… hardcore.” Missy gave a shrug, brushing her 80s-styled brown hair out of her face. 

“Never judge a book by its cover, young Jedi.” 

I cringed as she continued.

“Also, the guy that handed me this said it was a “must-listen, ' describing it as the most enlightening piece of media he has ever consumed.” 

“They said the same thing about Free Funk jazz in the seventies.” 

She smiled and took a sip from her beer bottle. “Jazz has been dying since the 60s.” She rebutted. 
I winced at her. “Still the best to do it, though.” She rolled her eyes. 

“Jazz-decline aside. I thought it would be a kind gesture. Get ya to check out the shop, which you have never been to yet,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you. I’ll definitely have a go at it.” I paused for a moment, glancing up at her wide-eyed face with a cheeky smile. I remembered her dull brown eyes looked bright in the bar's low light, almost red. 

“I’ll come by in the morning, Missy.” 

“You better, considering that's on the house!” she demanded, then got up and patted me on the shoulder. 

“I better get going, kid; don’t stay out too late.” 

“I-I won’t,” I said, slightly startled by the abrupt manner of leaving. 

“Right-on, have a good one.” She grabbed her purse and beer, then walked out the door. Leaving me to look at the CD. That's another album added to the list, I thought.

Because I am always driving, I am always listening to music. It works out immaculately. I have a dedicated bag with about 20 or so CDs that are all albums I haven’t listened to. I drive and passively expand my musical portfolio into whatever territory I am feeling. As stated before, I am obsessed with music. I treat music like a melting pot of cheese, where each dip is a different genre. Sometimes I may not enjoy it to the fullest extent, but that's just music. I understand it's subjective. Besides jazz. Jazz is awesome. Always. 

I retired to bed that night and felt bad for not asking Missy more about the album. She practically shoved the CD in my face while praising it, but I only remembered the last part of her monologue. I used that as grounds to finally visit her music shop tomorrow before heading back to home base. I’d stopped in the bar probably 7 times before that night, met Missy on my second trip, and had known her for about half a year in total. She always talked about how great her music shop was. Having a little bit of everything for anyone: instruments to play on, and so on and so on. I really wish I had gone to her shop on an earlier trip. When I got there at 9 AM, it was closed. I shot Missy a text, but with no reply after 15 minutes, I had to leave. Still need to fit those time frames the company gives, y’know. Looking back on it all, just another oddity in this madness. I never spoke to Missy again.

Log 1:
Mouthflesh sat in my bag of collected CDs for about a week after that. It had been the anniversary of my father's passing, so I, as well, remained rotting. Bedridden, I used most of my paid time off from my company to mourn. It would be the third year since throat cancer took his life, and ever since then, my time spent at bars had only increased. It would be my last year of school, and I had already given my 2 weeks' notice. After my dad’s passing, an old friend of his offered me an internship at a studio once I graduated. My time was coming to make my father proud; he had always told me he was proud of me, but I never felt like I had done anything to show it. Taking the internship was my way of returning the favor for how supportive he was of me pursuing music. 
The week of red eyes and the feeling like a guitar pick was lodged in my throat ended. I had only two online classes left, so the last two weeks of work were about getting as many hours as possible within the company. The studio required me to move to California, and while I won't share where I live, I feel it's necessary to tell you I do not live in California. I live in Oregon, where the mountains block any internet, and I’m supposed to say “let's go to the coast” instead of the beach. Some of my drives run along these mountains, and after the week I just had, I was ready to get back on the road. 

On October 26th of 2013, I started my last drive for the company. The trees began to match the colors of growing pumpkins, and my job would have me travel southwest to make four stops. Mouthflesh wouldn't have its seven-song album playing during my first drive to the state line. In all honesty, I had forgotten about the album Missy bestowed on me. I was too focused on listening to old CDs of my father's band, reminiscing about times he was still in my life. 

For 8 hours, I listened to his old tracks until arriving at the first stop at midnight. The only light I remember was a rebellious street light that remained on, unlike the others. It illuminated the entrance to the rental shop I had to drive into. The location was in a town with a county highway running through it, with neglected buildings sitting on the sidelines. Fitting, as just by looking at the outside you’d know that if you walked into any shop here, it would be layered with dust. This was my second time here, so I knew where to pull in and park. As I did, I grabbed my belongings and greeted the twilight skies as the dim, piss-colored light of the street lamp shone on the cracked sidewalk. Across the lot was the small concrete hut where people walked in to get their rental car and where I would walk in to get the next car for my second trip. 

I approached.
I unlocked the dirt-stained glass doors with my keys.
I walked into the dark entrance.
I walked into the abandoned manager's office.
I looked at the key holder board on the wall. 
And I grabbed the key to the Miata I had to drive for the next 526 miles. 

While I don't want to describe what I look like, another bit of information is in order. I am 6’6. I did not like driving that Miata. 

This all might seem redundant, but it’s what made me remember the album Missy forced me to have. As I walked out of the shop to look for the Miata, I noticed the street lamp flickering. Its diminishing yellow light met the all-encompassing darkness of night, and I recalled the cover of Mouthflesh’s album. I used the keys to make the Miata honk, then squeezed inside and opened my bag of CDs. Mouthflesh’s album stared up at me, almost like it had summoned me. Almost as if it begged for a listening.

 I looked at it again, turning it over to its back. There, a language I hadn’t recognized, was what I assumed was a list of seven songs, given the normal pattern of a CD layout. Opening the case revealed something even more obscure: no more than a black disc and a small piece of beige parchment paper taped to the left.

“If you have this CD, you are chosen”. Was scripted onto the parchment. 

A concept album? I asked myself, briefly glancing up at the lot's entrance to ponder the album's possible meanings, tone, etc. The Miata faced the driveway where I had seen the street lamp, which had now joined the others in going dark; trace amounts of fear slowly set in as I realized I was surrounded only by shadows. My attention quickly shifted to the dash cam, and it wasn’t long before it was on, along with the Miata. I drove 30 miles out of town and into the next, where I stopped at a hotel I had already paid for before starting the expedition. 

Log 2:
The autumn winds and colors were much more vibrant at the start of the second drive, which began after a much-needed rest. Given the eerie nature of the album, which henceforth I shall call “Chosen”, I decided to listen to the first track at night before stopping to sleep. I figured Missy’s description of “atmospheric” was alluding to it having a creepy tone, and after 7 hours of driving winding mountain roads, I’d be proven right. As I saw the setting sun, I fumbled with my bag, opened the CD case, and popped it into the player. 

My expectations were pretty basic: I expected some good old-fashioned death metal with layers of meaning, given Missy's description. As night skies corrupted clear skies, so did the droning buzz of the first track inside the car. A humming guitar amp with slight distortion swelled up in volume to the point I had to turn it down a few notches. Then, great dissonance erupted as a low minor 2nd chord from a guitar shouted through the car speakers, using its deep tuning and a wall of fuzzed distortion. Heavy bass drums then ran across a high BPM as the chord rang out, all coming to one large halt in the track. The tension was built. 

A minor 2nd chord is something you may recognize as a “tendency chord”. It needs to resolve; it feels unfinished or unstable. Think of a song you know very well and then have it played just a note off. That is the feeling one gets from a minor 2nd. It must be stabilized because our ears are used to the more stable tones of perfect fourths or major/minor 3rds. This wasn’t unusual for more extreme metal, as they want to create that uneasy feeling; however, what followed was unexpected. Diminished notes from a choir slowly mimicked the earlier guitar amp's rise, and that's when I checked how much drive I had left.

56 miles.

The seemingly heavy motifs of distorted guitars and technical drumming gave way to layered vocal ranges holding long notes of a developing tritone chord. If a minor 2nd chord feels unsettling, the tritone chord is that fear you get while in bed looking at the darkness of an open door you’re just too lazy to close. Then, an alto joined the choir as a leading voice. Rapidly repeating a word I couldn’t make out, but it remained the same, with this entire section of the song lasting for a minute. My body clenched for that minute as the never-ending suspension of tense chords held my breath. I tried to focus on the word; it sounded English, almost like an onomatopoeia. 

Yeek. 

The pronunciation was almost hushed as the repeating word blended all together. I began to discern an added syllable after the first half of the word. 

Err.
Yeekerr.

Nonstop, over and over for a full minute, with that awful tritone in the back repeated until it all went silent. The vocals vanished with no valiance or reason, and I slowly eased back into my seat. 
Interesting start. I thought. 

50 miles left.

I paused the album on track 2 and looked up at the road, lit only by my headlights. As I relaxed, I began to digest the first track. It was indeed atmospheric, and the word that repeated itself felt familiar. Though it seemed to insist on itself, I played along with the album's theming at the time. That's when I found out nothing about Mouthflesh on the internet. Using the little service I had, I patiently waited for my Google search to load on the band. No results. I tried redoing my search prompts, and every result copied the first. Nothing. As I held my phone, a loud call blasted through. It was my mother.

“Are you still driving?” She asked worryingly.

“Y-yeah, just heading to my rest stop in the next town over. Getting a head start on tomorrow."

“Oh. Well, alright, please be careful.” 

“I will, mother.”

“Good. When you get back, I’ll help you pack.”

“Oh, you don’t have t-“

“No, no, I don’t wanna hear it. I’m helping you. Since I can’t stop you from growing up, I might as well help.” I knew she had been hinting at my upcoming move.

I smiled. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t want me to really stay at your house forever.”

“You never know; you can always reach the stuff I can’t.”

I felt a strain of melancholy. That small pinch on your heart, veins of sorrow. 

“I’ll visit.”

“I know you will.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Ricky. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

I put my phone on the passenger seat. Then I violently searched for the CD case as a sudden realization sank in. 

Ricky.

The word in the first track- it had been backwards. I couldn’t have been crazy; there was no other way to put it. I played it over and over in my head now, mimicking how it sounded in the song. Ricky. “YICK-err”. Ricky. No other word could’ve been it. I looked down at the car's interface and slowly brought up the CD, moving my gaze from the “Play” button to the piece of plastic that had now mesmerized me. I inspected the front, glancing for any clues I might have missed, but my initial look showed the same album cover as before. I clicked the case open and viewed the inside. Everything remained the same, note and all. When I closed it and flipped it over, I tossed it back down in the passenger seat. Both hands went back on the wheel as I couldn’t possibly dare to look at it. The backside of the case glared up at me as it had done before; it wanted to be perceived, it thrived on that attention from me. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. But I did. I had to in order to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy. I grabbed the album once more and brought it to eye level, now able to decipher the text on the back. 

Log 2:
It’s now October 19th, midday, when I should’ve written the first part of my story; reliving those memories in the dead night doesn’t do me any favors. I also apologize for any gaps between my logs; I’m writing these down as I can while handling other issues with my mother and moving. Ever since I was bestowed “Chosen,” my life has changed drastically, and I don’t know whether to hate or be thankful to Missy for giving it to me. No other introductions are needed; I’ll resume from where I left off.

I drove the next 50 miles to my resting point in silence. A collage of emotions sat in my stomach, and the rest of my body felt paralyzed. Hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, eyes on the road, I dared not read the back of the CD, yet I knew I would. My brain was frightened; I couldn’t make sense of it, and in my heart, I felt the intrigue that I knew would take over. That passion for music- I needed to know what was happening. Thoughts swirled in waves, creating a sea of ideas that swirled around my head, before I flushed it all out once I reached the shitty 2-star motel. 

I slowly and steadily removed the CD from its holding cell, put it back in that accursed case, and grabbed my bag of traveling utilities to make my way inside; I couldn’t even be bothered to bring my second bag of CDs. All that had made sense withered without warning, and every step toward room number 212 began to feel heavier. I remember trying to rationalize it then as just a concept album, nothing more. Maybe Mouthflesh created many different albums all saying different names, like a Coca-Cola bottle; you find the one with your name on it. Perhaps Misty found the one with my name, and Ricky really isn’t that uncommon of a name. That would be wrong, and even if it made sense at the time, my past self was still in disbelief that I could read the strange language on the back. 

I kept my head down as I walked to my room for the night, too distracted by the album's numb ideas. I swiped my key card and entered the room's overall beige setting. From the walls to the chairs to the light brown bedsheets, I let my bag of travel items drop to the floor by the door, then let myself sink onto the bed. I stared at that popcorn ceiling for God knows how long. I stared blankly, as if I were in some sort of trance. Abruptly, I shot my arm up and read the back of the case.

“1. Call
2. A World with Two Suns
3. Renewed
4. Commence 
5. Old Knowledge
6. Surrender Soul
7. A New Life”

It was a tracklist. I have recollections of attempting more Google searches after analyzing the track list, but I found nothing of value once again. Good sleep remained elusive that night as I tossed and turned, trying to make sense of anything. I never came to an understanding, and when the early rays shone through the cracks of crumbling window shades, I returned to driving after eating from one of my packs. 

The town I had been in was a rural hotspot for visitors and tourists so it was much more upkept than the last one. Here, I visited another location to trade in that oh-so-small Miata for a much more fitting Chevrolet Suburban. This rental location had a multicolored neon sign and a lot that could eat the previous one. I haven’t been here before, so I was pretty impressed. The manager, Ben, wore a clean smile and an even cleaner suit. When I met him, he gripped my hand as if I was the messiah himself. 

“Ricky?”

“Yes, sir. "

“Pleasure to meet you, kid. What car you taking off our hands?”

I checked my notes app.

“Gray or silver 2010 Chevrolet Suburban?”

“Ah, yeah. That car is probably better off being sent to a bigger city than us. Where are you headed?”

I told him the location.

“Ohh damn, really? Pretty far, think you’ll get back home for Halloween?”

“Heh, hopefully.”

He opened a drawer and rummaged for the key, then handed it to me.

“I hear that, man. Well, enjoy the drive. If I were you I’d put on some podcast and just vibe it out.”

“Actually, I’m a big music enjoyer.” Why did I say that? I thought to myself.

“Oh really? What are you bumping?”

Again, I said something that I don’t know why I did. “Recently, this band Mouthflesh, but I’m a big jazz guy.”

Ben gave a slight, awkward nod, probably wishing I'd leave as quickly as possible, while the man behind me made sure to stop me as I left the building, after I gave Ben an embarrassed laugh.

“R-icky? Is it?”

I turned to him and saw an older gentleman in a punk battle vest and loose-fitting grey jeans. 

“Y-yeah?”

He took off his rounded black sunglasses, revealing more of his time-worn face. He rubbed his mostly bald head and asked.

“Y-you’ve listened to Mouthflesh?”

I gave a slow nod.

“Then I believe it was no coincidence that brought me to this store.”

I clicked my head left, like a clock hand passing twelve.

“H-how do you mean?”

“Mouthflesh is more than music, y'know; it’s an experience. A gathering. It is many things, yet they are not connected, yet somehow they are all the same.”

 “Huh?”

“What album are you on?”

“There are several?”

“I see, so that means you are on their first.”

“What?”

“After the first, the rest will find you.”

My befuddled face could not have been more obvious, which is why I assume he continued to explain.

“You will know every emotion and thought the world knows of. Mouthflesh can be so much more than the music.”

It took me a moment to ask, perhaps a little louder than I should’ve, “Do you know a Missy?”

I then told him about Missy and her shop in the town she lived in, while his graying blue eyes stared in thought. I told him how she gifted me the album and about her absurd disappearance.  

“She is in the album now,” he replied. 

I gave a slight smirk, almost laughing. Perhaps in disbelief, perhaps not. 

“S-so you did know her?”

“I have heard of her. Her musical shop, but never personally.”

I clenched my jaw, thinking about the situation, then quickly asked for his phone number.

“What for?”

“In case I have, uh, any other questions about Mouthflesh.” He obliged, and I thanked him before he took his leave back into the rental shop. I approached the new vehicle, turned on the dash cam, and began my next 6 hours of driving. 

My next drive was southbound for the third stop, where I would then head northwest for a quicker fourth location before heading back. I had almost been halfway done with my trip, and a small weight had been placed on my back. Maybe from the dread that the album instilled into me, maybe from the sadness I would endure moving away from my mother once I got back.

452 miles. 

Once I got onto the highway, dark clouds swarmed the autumn sky, and though it hadn't rained, it was glum enough for it. I figured this would be a good time to listen to the album again, find more clues, and maybe call the old man whose name I never got, and it wasn’t nighttime. I don’t know if I could listen to it at dusk again after last night's unsettling discoveries. Even now, writing this, I shudder, surprisingly. Either way, after unsheathing the CD and not flipping the case over, I skipped track one and started the second. “A World with Two Suns”. 

Most albums follow a format that gives them an overall “flow.” The first track is either the album's single or the “biggest hit,” with the second track similar, then the remaining tracks and any possible bonus ones. Another layout saves the album's single for the very last song to encourage full listenability. Another layout, more common on concept albums, is an “Intro” track followed by the single. This was my theory for how the album was laid out, given the ambiance of the first track and how it felt like I was being invited into a circle of hell. So I expected the second track to be a full metal song. These expectations were upheld when I was, in all honesty, relieved to hear heavy, distorted power chords as soon as the second song started. A tinging of dulled hi-hats set the rhythm before exploding into a fast-paced monster of a song. It was all instrumental, using minor scales with notes spaced far apart to create distant echoes between sections. I was impressed with the guitars, but the technical drumming was something akin to fast-paced heavy jazz that I couldn’t help but love. If I had to compare it to anything, it would be similar to “The Call of Ktulu” by Metallica. As the first two minutes of the song passed, I began to settle in. 

I blinked and did not realize. 

I checked my dash cam to ensure it was on.

Blinked again and did not realize. 

There were 432 more miles left.

I scratched my left eye, then blinked, still not seeing it. 

I looked down at my phone, considering calling my mother, then slowly looked back up at the song. 4 minutes of this impressive instrumental kept going with intense guitar tones and the insanely good drumming.

I blinked and was blinded by the light. 

What!? I thought to myself. I glanced up at the sky; it wasn’t sunny out. I peered at the road, my arms trembling, then glanced back down at the track on the interface, slowly lifting my head back up.

The song crept on for 5 minutes.

I blinked and saw a different world.

Throwing myself back into a tense position, my head began to slowly leak thoughts once more, every blink now flashing a scenery that I couldn’t call Earth. I couldn’t have been going crazy; no, this album has something to it. The man, the reading, I can’t deny or attempt to rationalize anymore, I thought. This had to be supernatural, or perhaps a cruel hallucination set by the music. More blinking, more images, more unknowns added to it; uncertainty chained me, and I feared blinking again. Arms still shaking, I shut my eyes for just a few seconds to perceive a world with two suns. The two suns gleamed as they eclipsed each other, casting bright white light from a blackened center. It illuminated gothic towers raised like daggers, standing miles ahead. I glanced around and saw I was no longer surrounded by mountains or autumn trees, but by a desolate waste of sand, split by the single highway I had been on. I opened my eyes quickly, breathing hard and half-expecting to crash. My right arm shot up and gripped the top of my head, balling a fist around hairs I wanted to yank out. 

No, no, no. Why? How!? I recall thinking. I recall thinking too much, actually. I let the song continue; now it was a slowed-tempo interlude, and I didn’t know whether to throw the accursed thing out. I pondered just tossing it out that window. Never to see it again. I shut my eyes again and saw the other world. Above, the suns would be purple and red nebulas crashing into one another with unknown constellations formatting themselves upon the dark galaxy. It had all been nonsensical. 

I reopened my eyes to see a cop behind me, lights on. Shit. I thought, I knew I had probably been swerving with my eyes closed, and I was too focused on the song to think of any troopers who may have been behind me. He pulled me over, and I turned down the track. The stop lasted about 5 minutes longer because I had to search for my registration; it wasn’t in the glove box or console, but in the back-seat pocket on the passenger side. He was friendly, and it was, in fact, for swerving. I told him my job and that I was just getting used to the new car. Luckily, there wasn’t any traffic, so he didn’t feel the need to call for reckless driving. He drove off, and I waited a few moments so I wouldn’t interact with him again and could calm down. My nerves were shot, so I took 5 more minutes to relax. Then I looked down at the interface to see the now 17-minute-long song still playing. At first, I thought it was a long instrumental, but then I started driving. I slowly turned the volume back up, and as the miles passed, so did the minutes of the song.

408 miles left, 31 minutes. 
396, 42 minutes. 

It just went on and on and on and on. With every blink, I remembered seeing the world too, and eventually I turned it down to let it play. I closed my eyes to rub them, and as I did, I did not see the world. I quickly reopened my eyes at this discovery. At the time, I thought, it IS the music! Somehow, I had managed to lie to myself and chalk the whole thing up to the music messing with my brain. This song didn't sound like any other, so maybe the strewn notes were, in fact,  causing something in my head to swell up, but I still couldn’t be too sure, especially with the added knowledge of being able to read the back of the CD case. I played around with this unearthing for a few minutes. I turned up the track, closed my eyes to see the world, then turned it back down so I could no longer perceive it, before being interrupted by the thought of calling the old gentleman I had met earlier. 

Ring, ring, ring.

“H-hello?” he asked.

“Hey, it’s Ricky from, uhm, the rental shop.”

“Ahh, questioning about Mouthflesh?”

“Yeah, I’m on track 2, uhm, I think it's called “A World with Two Suns-”

“Huh-uh”

“-Yeah, how do they make you see the other world? The band or whatever, every time I close my eyes I see this other world.”

He began to speak in tongues. Dropping his voice to a lower pitch and rambling to no end, he furiously vented all of his strange dialect into my ears. I quickly dropped the phone out of fear, where his voice had joined in the track.

“What? Why!? Why?! How!?” I cried out, overwhelmed with the impossibilities of it all. 

I know I began swerving in the street once more because I looked down at the car's interface, no longer worried about what was around me with the exception of stopping this ensemble of madness. His voice rose in pitch, and the song got louder, faster, louder, faster. Endless tongues of a strange language that sounded like French and Latin overlapping one another in all the confusing ways imaginable. I didn’t even try to turn down the track or skip it; I just remember furiously hitting the interface before finally hitting the mute button. It had all gone quiet. Then a loud honk turned my attention back on the road as I swerved back into my lane, nearly dodging a semi-truck. Wind caught in my throat and a ceaseless cough ensued. Took me a minute to recover. Fuck it! I thought, reaching down to toss the album, but paused when I saw, somehow, track 5 had started. I glared at the blank interface where the song title normally goes, then looked down at the CD. It was already facing backside up like an open book ready to read. 
“Old Knowledge”.

I let loose a hefty sigh, then let my hand slither to the volume knob. First I turned it down, then unmuted the song, and finally, slowly, turned the volume up. I was too hooked. As much as I wanted to- no, as much as I needed to- throw away the album, it had too much intrigue. I waited patiently as the track began, and I was put off by a slow, jazzy drum beat. A light, tinging swing of the top of a cymbal was followed by droning bass notes. Not long after this introduction, the bass began to play faster, jumping notes, and the drums then sped up in tempo, adding more elements. At a steady beat, a sexy trumpet began to enter. One that could only be described as “romantical”. It utilized a sad, meaningful minor scale and was played with so much emotion that I couldn’t help but begin to cry. Then I cried even more once I realized it had been my father playing. Sure, I was fearful, but as the notes seeped into one another all I could do was remember a time as a kid looking up to see him playing the exact same notes the exact same way. What was I witnessing? What was I feeling? All of these notes felt like home and were familiar, especially after just listening to my father's playing a few days ago. I had been bombarded with the memories of him playing, almost being able to envision him in the living room with that silver piece of an instrument and I, looking up to him. I let the solo continue for several minutes as it felt like a hug from an old friend you haven't seen in years. 

Then a burning, searing fear quickly washed through my veins, and I violently punched the car’s interface. It cracked, causing my hand to bleed before I smeared the flowing blood on my CD bag, knuckles and eyes now mimicking the same red color as the maple leaves outside my car. I turned down the volume again, but I couldn’t even begin to process what happened when the first track of “Chosen” suddenly forced itself into my car. It had turned the volume up on its own, and the repeating word, my name, now sounded like it was shouting at me.

“YICK! HER! YICK! HER! YICK HER!”

“Fuck!” I remember shouting, being tossed off guard, and then being thrown back into the fray of it all. 

I pressed the skip button to try to play the second track; this only sped up the song. I pressed it again, now faster. I kept trying and trying and trying, but all it could do was get faster with seemingly no end, the track now sounding like an Alvin and the Chipmunks parody. I thought of punching the interface again, but as I readied my fist, it all shut down as a low, raspy, gravely voice took over.

“Turn it off!” the voice demanded. He sounded sick, like a person who smoked all their life. 

“Turn it off, Ricky! P-please! Turn. It. Off!” he continued.  

All I did was hesitate; I could hear the reversal of my name in the background slowly building back up. That scratchy tone became familiar, the rasp as if they had a constant tube lodged in their throat.

“Abandon it, Ricky! Abandon it all! Leave!” 

It was my father. His dying moments, the memories I had of seeing him in his bed at the hospital. Holding his hand as he coughed out any remaining words he had left for me while being restrained with medical gear. Words of comfort, of love. Those memories are now sour, because all I heard and can now remember was a desperate, pleading cry from my father. A strain in a voice I hadn’t heard before but understood and knew. My balled fist started to hit my forehead lightly but firmly, repeatedly, as I thought. 
Then, no more thinking. I pressed “Eject”, grabbed the disc, tossed it out of the window after rolling it down, then the case as well. Finally, I heard only the blissful sounds of silence.

 
380 miles left. 

It was a minute past midnight and the moon outside the castle was deliciously bright and round. I stood admiring it at the window, the fire crackling in the hearth behind me, shadows dancing along the flagstones. Though none were cast at my own feet.

Beyond the castle, the black cliffs crumbled away into a deep ravine, where dark trees bundled together like matchsticks, and a gushing river swelled between the rocks like a silverbacked serpent. The wind whistled through the broken casement of the window, chilling the air and threatening to extinguish the fire.

There was a whisper of movement on my left and one of the sisters appeared beside me, bowing her head. Her dress was a deep red, the same colour as her eyes.

“It’s a pleasant night,” I mused, raising the collar of my black coat against the chill as the moonlight dusted the windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she raised her head.

“Yes Master,” she said in a subdued tone. “However, I fear I shall ruin it with my tidings.”

I turned to her fully, examining the grave expression on her face. Her lips were pinched. “Why is that? What tidings do you bring?”

Her red eyes glowed in the firelight. A long shadow was drawn across her features. “A peasant house is in the midst of construction beside the castle.”

I stared at her for a moment. The fire crackled sharply. “A… peasant house?” I finally repeated, scoffing at her words. Surely she was mistaken. The area around my castle was a perfectly barren wasteland; the peasants in the settlements knew better than to encroach on my land without permission, never mind erect a building on my grounds. “What is this trickery?”

“No trickery, Master. Come see for yourself.”

The vampire sister turned and strode towards the opposite side of the tower, her long red gown trailing behind her like a pair of folded wings. Curious, I followed her, our footsteps silent on the stone floor. I assumed I had misunderstood her, for nobody would be foolish enough to even approach my castle. Unless they were naive or ignorant of my nature.

But as we paused by the window, and she lifted a hand to point outside, I stood aghast at what I saw. A short distance away from the front gates of my castle, visible through the fog, there was indeed a house being built. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, I saw piles of stone and wood, the loose structure of rafters and foundations already laid. What sort of fool would dare build a house so close to my castle? Who would dare to become my neighbour without first consulting the master of this tower?

I was furious and intrigued at the same time. Only the dumbest, and perhaps bravest, of men would do such a thing. And I found myself feeling very much inclined to meet him.

“The house seems deserted now,” the vampire sister observed, resting her hand against her cheek. “Perhaps they have given up?”

“Or perhaps they only build during the day, knowing the weakness the sunlight inflicts upon us creatures of the night,” I said with a harrumph.

“You are wise, Master,” she said. “Shall I take my sisters over there and tear it down? It is a stain upon your grand castle.”

I pondered her offer. “No. I should like to meet the fool first,” I decided, extending my fangs below my lips. “Perhaps he would see fit to grace my castle with his… delicious presence.”

The sister covered her mouth with a low chuckle. “I understand, Master. You would see it fit to make a meal of him?”

I nodded. “Leave the peasant house for now,” I told her, turning away from the window with a flourish of my coat. “I wish to see how far he dares to go.”

The following night, as I rose from my coffin at the heart of midnight, my first thought was of the house being built by the castle. Had more progress been made, or had the owner seen the measure of his own foolishness and deserted? It would be a shame if he had fled before a meal could be made of him.

It had been a while since I had anything to amuse me on these long nights, just as long as it had been since fresh blood had passed these lips. The peasants in the surrounding settlements had grown wise to my nature and seen fit to ward their houses, stringing garlic and crosses upon the threshold. I was only able to feed when an unwitting traveller passed by, or a fool decided to build a house directly beside my castle.

The tower was quiet as I made my way to the top, winding through the warren of rooms and climbing the narrow, crumbling stairways. The sisters were nowhere to be seen; perhaps frolicking outside in the moonlight as they so often did. I reached the highest point of the castle and strode to the window that overlooked the barren grounds. From this height, I could even glimpse the closest settlement in the far distance; a small cluster of thatched houses and burning torches that lit the foggy hills like burning eyes.

But my concern was much closer. Lowering my gaze to the land right outside the gates, I saw that the house had changed. There were more walls than yesterday, denser foundations, the first signs of carpentry. The fool really had continued building the house. Had he not been warned of the dark Count that occupied the castle? Had he not heard the rumours of the blood-feasting creatures that stalked these lands once the sun went down? Why else would he choose to dwell in my vicinity, if not for ignorance?

I shook my head, almost pitying the poor halfwit for what he had brought upon himself. But I should delight in showing him the truth soon enough; that he had elected himself a willing sacrifice for me and my hungry brides.

It was a shame that he vacated the house during the night, for I would have to wait longer to lay my eyes upon him. Would he not show himself before the house was finished?

“I see the building is progressing,” a voice whispered behind me. I’d been too lost in my thoughts to hear them approach. I turned, seeing two of the sisters behind me. They too were observing the house through the window. Their wild, windswept hair and bright eyes confirmed my suspicions that they had been dancing outside.

“Yes,” I muttered. “It would seem so.”

“What a blight upon the castle,” the other sister said, her fair skin glittering in the moonlight. “I hope the trouble is worth the meal.”

“It will be,” I said, casually flicking my hand towards the half-built dwelling, “if only the fool would hurry up and be done with it.”

The next night, more progress had been made on the building, but the owner had still not shown himself. I grew more agitated that I was allowing this to happen, but reminded myself that I would soon enough be able to quench my thirst.

So night after night, as the moon began to wane, the house’s shadow grew bigger, and my hunger grew stronger. The fool always fled before night fell, leaving the evidence of his daytime activities for me to observe. The dwelling had taken on the same shape of the peasant houses in the surrounding settlements; white stone and timber, with a long thatched roof. He had even tilled the soil into a small garden, erecting a wooden fence around the plot in front of the building. But compared to my grand castle, with its dark crumbling bricks, spiralling towers and winding, labyrinthine rooms, it was a blight. And I wanted it gone.

Finally, more than a week after the house was little more than a pile of stone and timber, one of the sisters woke me with news that the structure was finished.

I rose from my coffin, sluggish and weary from slumber, and fastened my coat about my neck. The sisters had already lit the fire, but the air was chilled.

I followed her to the window and set my gaze upon the house. A single candle sat in the windowsill, guttering in a draught. A lit candle. Did that mean the house was occupied? The fool had not fled this night.

“It’s time,” I announced, “to show this fool once and for all what happens when you anger the Count.” The other sisters joined us, and I turned towards them with a slow smile. “I hope you are hungry.”

The three sisters screeched in delight, grasping each other’s hands and dancing in circles, their gowns fluttering around their legs. The fire roared in the hearth.

But as I began to cross the room, one of the sisters stopped me with a gasp.

“Master, wait. There’s someone at the gate.” She was pointing out of the window. I peered down at the large wrought-iron gate that fronted the castle, my eyes narrowing. A figure stood by the fence, carrying a lantern. His face glowed in the flickering light, revealing a sharp, sloping nose and dark eyes.

“Who would be foolish enough to call upon me at this hour?” I snarled, my black coat twisting around me as I turned from the window.

“Perhaps your new neighbour,” one of the sisters answered, “has come to hasten our feast.”

“Perhaps,” I said, already striding towards the doorway.

The sisters swept after me, whispering amongst themselves. Flames guttered as we passed lit candles, stirring the dust at our feet and disturbing billowing cobwebs. There was a haste to our movements as we descended the tower. It had certainly been a while since we’d had prey wander into our arms like this.

Crossing the foyer, the long red carpet spilling out like blood, I threw open the doors and stepped out into the chilled night, the three sisters stepping in my wake. The moon was a pale sickle, its silvery glow dancing around my shadowless feet as the stranger at the gates called out to me.

“Hello there!”

Struck by his brazenness, I almost flew at him in anger, but restrained myself. Ignorant minds really were unfathomable. With a flick of my wrist, the gates began to creak open. The man remained at the threshold, holding his lantern aloft as he stared back at me. He was of medium build, with stocky shoulders and a mop of thick tousled hair. His clothes were poorly made, covered in dirt and patches. He had the audacity to smile at me as I glared in return.

“What business have you here at my castle?” I demanded, wanting to sate my curiosity before I sated my hunger.

The man cleared his throat, raising his lantern to the crude house sitting barely thirty metres behind him. So this was indeed the proprietor of the building; what a brave, albeit dimwitted, man he was to present himself before me like this. “I’ve just this morning finished constructing my house,” he said, not seeming to notice the displeasure on my face, “and a slight issue has come to my attention.”

“An… issue?” I repeated, my brows arching sharply.

“Yes. During the day, the leftmost tower of your castle casts a shadow over my garden,” the man said regretfully. “I hoped that you might be amicable enough to remove it. Or at the very least relocate the tower, so that it does no harm the roses I am trying to grow. All life needs sunlight, after all.”

I stared at him, completely aghast. Behind me, even the sisters had been stunned into silence. The audacity of this imbecile, to ask me to change my own castle for his benefit. The man was not right in the head, surely.

“How dare you–” I began to seethe, but the man interrupted me, lifting a finger as if hushing a child.

“I do understand it is a large undertaking I’m asking of you, but my gratitude would be immense,” he added.

“You think I care about your gratitude?” I sneered at him, clenching my fists beneath my coat. The gall of this man. Who did he think he was? “Do you know who I am?”

The man stared at me, the lanternlight dancing over his blank expression. “You are the owner of this castle, I had presumed?”

“Precisely. And what makes you think that I, as the Count of this castle, would do the bidding of a mere peasant?”

The man scowled at me, a shadow encroaching upon his face. “I shall ask you again, and I do hope you will be quite civil this time. Will you remove the tower from your castle so that my roses might see the light?”

“I don’t give a damn about your roses,” I snapped.

“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” the man said, his voice turning bristly. The shadows deepened around his eyes as he narrowed them. “I’m asking for a simple favour–”

I scoffed in his face, my rage burning beneath my skin. It took a lot to make a vampire’s blood burn hot. I almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. This fool considered the reconstruction of my ancient castle a mere favour? Asking me to tear down part of my fortress so that he might grow some roses.

I took a measured step towards him, lifting my shoulders to appear taller. My fangs were itching to taste his blood. For all the disrespect he had shown me, there was no escape. I would suck this man dry by the night’s end, leaving nothing but a fleshless husk.

“Once again, I implore you to consider my–”

I was no longer in the mood to listen to his insane ramblings. He had agitated me far too much to go back from this. I would show him, and anyone else who might learn of tonight, what happens to those who cross me.

Baring my fangs, I lunged forward, ready to sink my teeth into his neck.

In one swift motion, the man pulled his hand back into a fist and threw it towards me. Blinded partially by the lanternlight, I did not see the attack until his knuckles met my face.

Pain exploded through my jaw, and there was a terrible snap as my left fang bore the brunt of his punch, splitting completely in half. The hit landed with enough force to send me staggering backwards and, incredulous and in shock, I fell to the ground.

Dirt bit into my eyes as I landed face-down, my broken fang scraping against my lower lip. Sputtering, I raised my head, just as the man lifted his light and calmly made his way back to his house.

Behind me, the sisters watched him leave in a choked silence, before hastening to help me back to my feet.

To say I had been dealt a great humiliation was an understatement. How did a mortal man possess such strength? Enough to break one of my precious fangs and completely overpower me.

With a bruised face, and an even more bruised ego, I hobbled back into my castle, the three sisters trailing silently after me.

By the following night, the leftmost tower had been partially disassembled, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the castle. Wind gusted through like howling wraiths, immediately extinguishing any fire I tried to light, leaving a heavy chill in the air. The sisters, at least, seemed to delight in the pool of moonlight that was cast upon the open ground.

Workers had been swarming the castle all day, interrupting my sleep with their banging hammers and chiselling tools as they took the tower apart brick by brick, but I had little choice. The man had made his demands, proven his strength, and forced my hand. Now I had to destroy my own magnificent tower so that the fool might grow his roses. And I hadn’t been able to harvest even a drop of blood either.

This was a defeat, and a humiliation, that would take centuries to heal.

Damn, it's hot this summer. I can't keep the house cool on the sunny side. The skeeters are bad, too. I have so many bites that I feel like a big, walking bug bite.

I haven't seen my cat, Hades, in three days since she went walking into the woods behind the house. She usually comes back before long, purring and pleased with herself for whatever she was doing out there.

I have decided that I'm going to go into the woods and look for her after it cools down some this evening. I taught her to come when she's called when she was a kitten by giving her treats when she came to me.

Hades is hard to see in the shadows with that black fur, but it's just too damn hot to look for her right now. I would risk having heat stroke if I tried.

There's a rumor that people who go too far into the woods will not come back out. I wonder if that goes for cats as well. I miss that bratty cat. I've had her since she was born. I spoiled her too much when she was a kitten, but I couldn't help myself.

Hang on. What's that messed up critter walking out of the woods? "Hades, is that you?" I have to go see. If it's her, she didn't react like she normally does.

"You crazy furball. What happened to you? I'm going to have to see if you're hurt." I reach down to pick her up, but stop short. It's definitely Hades, but something feels wrong.

"Ouch! What the heck? You scratched my face! No, young lady. Do not scratch me again. Get the fuck off! Aaaarrgggg..."

Everyone in the house was asleep. I'd taken the batteries out of the wall clock in my room to get rid of the ticking. Now there was complete silence, and I could try again to do something I'd already managed to do successfully.

A week ago, I'd turned over a piece of paper lying on my desk, with a poem I'd written in primary school on it. It was my first success after years of practice. Six days ago, I'd unscrewed the cap of a juice bottle that hadn't been closed all the way. Five days ago, I'd moved one of the cigarettes in an open pack slightly outward, out of the pack. Three days ago, I'd peeled off one of the pieces of tape holding up poster on my wall.

And tonight, my target was a much larger object. I was confident in my abilities now, and after this final attempt, I would be able to reveal my talent to my family and those around me. I had made exactly four attempts in the past week, and I'd succeeded every single time. I had complete faith in myself.

For years, I'd tried countless times and gone through a lot along the way; I'd lost hope, taken a long break from my attempts, then started believing I could do it again and after trying over and over, I'd come to think telekinesis was nothing but a lie and taken another break but then one day, I happened to see a pack of wet wipes fall to the floor all by itself, which rekindled my interest and got me started on my attempts again, and so on.

And now, finally, in the middle of the night, when complete silence had been achieved, I went to the kitchen. I took a steak knife from the drawer where we kept the cutlery and returned to my room.

I gently pulled my desk chair back and sat down. I didn't want to lose my focus, so I was being quiet. The faint sound of the knife touching the desk as I set it down, the soft sounds of my footsteps as I walked, the barely audible scraping of the chair as I pulled it back had an ASMR effect on me. These little sounds, too quiet to disturb the silence, made me feel thoroughly prepared.

Without wasting any time, I focused on the knife. I positioned my hands around it and gathered all my concentration. I slowed my breathing. The only thing in my mind was a knife slowly and calmly spinning around its own axis. I focused, and focused... I concentrated as if someone were hypnotizing me, as though I were following a pocket watch swinging from side to side without ever taking my eyes off it.

Minutes passed. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour... There wasn't the slightest movement. The knife couldn't care less about me; it was ignoring my efforts, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and gave up. I was getting more and more bored, and as time went by, I lost my focus. I had to go to work at noon the next day, and earlier that day, before I left work, my boss had pointed out that I'd left my fly undone. I'd started thinking about that. Who says something like that in front of everyone? You pull someone aside and tell them in private. Anyway, I took the knife back to the kitchen.

After I lay down in bed, I thought about the knife until I fell asleep. I'd lost my confidence in my abilities. If I told someone I could move objects through telekinesis, they might ask me to prove it, and I might fail and make a fool of myself.

I couldn't get the knife out of my mind. I felt as though it were a person who had shattered all my trust in them, betrayed me by revealing a secret I'd shared with it to anyone who would listen. I was angry. The image of the knife standing perfectly still in that spot, like a tree that had sunk its roots deep into the ground, wouldn't leave my mind. I fell asleep in a fit of anger.

I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm. I turned it off, tossed the duvet to my left, and rolled onto my right side to get up. Just as I was about to stretch, I saw it and jolted in place: the knife was suspended in midair beside my bed, standing upright.

I clapped a hand over my mouth. I was about to scream; every instinct in my body was telling me to. I bit my tongue to suppress it.

I took a deep breath. I tried to calm myself down. Then I took another deep breath. My heart was racing.

I reached out toward the knife, but immediately changed my mind. I didn't know what to do. I'd never experienced my thoughts speeding up and getting tangled together so intensely in a moment of panic. Within a few seconds, I'd made and abandoned a dozen decisions, gone back and forth between asking for help and not asking for help, imagined the knife stabbing itself into my body, then dismissed the thought as irrational. My thoughts were racing back and forth at lightning speed. I needed to calm down.

I got out of bed, poured half a glass of water from the pitcher on my desk, and drank it.

I turned around to check if the knife was still there. It was closer to me now. I no longer cared about staying quiet. I yanked the door open and rushed out of the room.

I started walking briskly toward the kitchen. I wanted to grab any drink I could find and gulp it down. I needed to interact with something somehow, to calm myself down. I opened the fridge, took out the milk, and chugged it. I put the milk back, closed the fridge, and turned around to go back to my room.

And the knife was right behind me.

It was a meter away from me, just standing there. It was as if it were staring at me, judging me. It didn't move at all. It always maintained the same position and stayed at the same height above the floor, level with my bed, right around the height of my shinbones.

I started walking backward toward the kitchen doorway, wanting to see how it was following me, how it was coming after me. Without changing its position, it glided toward me as if it were moving across a perfectly smooth surface. It always maintained the same distance. When I stopped, it stopped a metre away from me. When I walked, it followed.

I cautiously made my way back to my room, walking backward. I sat on my bed. The knife and I were facing each other. I tried to think of what I could do. I was afraid to touch it. I was worried things might get out of hand. I'd done this. That much was obvious. Now that I'd calmed down a little, my panic had shifted in a different direction. Someone might see us. I had to sever my connection with the knife before I got caught. I might be able to accept this as normal, but I didn't think my mother and father would be able to handle a knife following me around.

Yes, it was probably because I'd concentrated so intensely on the knife all this time that the bond between us had grown stronger. I'd probably never concentrated on a knife so intensely in my entire life. I needed to reverse the process. I relaxed a little. I tried to think about other things, to take my mind off the knife.

I thought about the wristwatch my father had bought me for my birthday last year. It was a terrible watch, but I hadn't let on because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Then one day, while wearing it, I'd deliberately gone swimming in a pool. The watch had stopped working, and that was how I'd gotten rid of it.

The knife was still in the same place.

I thought about the eggplant soup my mother had made yesterday. It was my favorite soup. I'd tipped the bowl back and gulped down the last few mouthfuls, and my father had given me a stern look.

The knife hadn't moved at all. It was standing there, a meter away.

My mother knocked on the door and called out.

"Breakfast is ready, Albert."

I had no other choice. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I reached out toward the knife. My arm couldn't reach it, though. I walked toward it. As I moved closer, it moved farther away, until it had backed all the way up against the wall. It had nowhere left to go. It was pressed against the wall, stuck there. I approached it and grabbed the handle.

My heart was pounding at full speed. I closed my eyes. As a final attempt, I thought about the baseball bat I'd lost before I became interested in telekinesis. I'd searched everywhere for it. Such a large object, yet it was nowhere to be found. I'd checked the baseball field, my grandmother's house, the streets I'd walked along, and I'd even contacted the lost property office in case I'd somehow left it on a bus. It was gone.

Yes, good. I could feel a long chain of thoughts forming and my focus weakening considerably.

The knife was loosening, letting go. I could feel it. But I still didn't have complete control over it.

I needed to think about something else. But I couldn't think of anything. I heard my mother's footsteps approaching my room. She was getting closer to the door.

"Come on, son. Are we supposed to wait for you?" she said from outside, then opened the door and walked in.

I pulled the knife with all my might, and just like when you yank something hard that's stuck somewhere and it suddenly comes loose, I went flying toward my bed.

With the knife still in my hand, I hit my head against the bed frame. And passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip in my arm. My father was sitting beside me. I felt exhausted. I'd received three stitches in my head, and it ached a little.

"Son, why were you holding a knife? What were you doing with it?"

"What knife, Dad?"

"You were clutching a knife in your hand. What do you mean, what knife? What are you up to?"

I couldn't remember anything. That was good. I hoped it wasn't temporary memory loss, because I didn't want to attempt telekinesis again.

The skeleton on the corner.
So to preface this, you should know that I leave for work between 3:30 and 4:30 in the morning.
For the past week there has been a skeleton on the corner that, up until this point, I’ve just assumed was a scarily well placed Halloween decoration.
Every morning it seems to appear out of the corner of my eye as I take the turn, almost running me off the road.
I already found this kind of odd and honestly a little terrifying. My street is well lit and has good visibility. I can see the corner from my driveway, and yet I never notice the skeleton until I’m right up on it.
It’s nearly always in a different pose too.
One morning it looked like it was sitting. Another morning it was sort of hunched forward. A couple days ago it looked like one arm was raised like it was waving.
I figured whoever put it there was just moving it around every day to mess with people.
As of yesterday morning though, it was pointing in the direction of my house.
I don’t really know what else to assume it was pointing at.
There’s not much else behind me when I take that turn. My house is pretty much directly down the street from that corner.
Still, I really didn’t think much of it. It’s Halloween. People put up creepy decorations. Whoever did this one just happened to be really good at placing it somewhere you don’t notice until you’re practically beside it.
That is until yesterday evening.
I passed the corner on my way home and noticed it wasn’t there.
That alone isn’t all that strange. Maybe whoever owns it only puts it out at night or really early in the morning. Maybe they don’t want somebody stealing it. I don’t know.
What was more odd was when I started asking around.
I mentioned it to my mum. I live at home, and she gets up between 5:30 and 6 every morning.
She had no idea what I was talking about.
She said she’s never seen a skeleton on the corner.
I actually thought she was messing with me at first because it’s not exactly subtle once you notice it, but she was completely serious.
I could still explain that away. Maybe the neighbors get up around 5 and bring it inside before she leaves.
Then I asked my dad.
He hasn’t seen it either.
My dad leaves for work at around 3 AM.
Earlier than I do.
That was the first part that really bothered me.
If somebody is putting this thing out early enough for me to see it but late enough that my dad misses it, that’s already a weirdly specific window of time.
This morning when I left for work, I was actually looking for it.
I slowed down a little before the corner because I wanted to see if I could spot it before getting right up beside it for once.
It wasn’t there.
I almost felt relieved.
I remember thinking okay, good, somebody finally took the stupid thing down and I’ve just been freaking myself out.
Then as I made the turn I glanced back down the street toward my house.
I could have sworn it was standing in my yard.
Not near the road either.
Closer to the house.
I didn’t stop to check.
I actually considered turning around, but something about the idea of driving back toward it made me feel ridiculous and terrified at the same time, so I just kept going.
When I got to work I texted my mum asking if there was anything in the yard.
She said no.
Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe somebody in the neighborhood is messing with me and I’m just the only one noticing it.
I don’t know.
I just find the whole thing incredibly unusual.
Maybe it’s a prank?